He never rested underneath my heart.

There beside the keening jet
on the tarmac where
nothing truly touches down,
where they all come
when they come home
already at forever rest,
a fist, a knot, a burl
of what had been and was
another woman’s son
left where it was contained
beneath a flag
and lodged itself, fist-hard,
unmerciful red beneath my breastbone.
There it hid
until I found it,
called it out again,
my spirit-son.

When he was a knot of flesh
beneath his mother’s breast
he properly unfurled.

This time I speak the one hard word I’ve carried
since they took him from the belly of the plane,
aloud, although I cannot make a sound of it
turn either into prayer or reason: