August 17th, 1981

The Adirondacks were thick that year;
they bulged across the horizon,
like a deluded someone who shoved
plump fourteen hips into svelte ten pants.

Maple, Beech, and Black Cherry swept
the sky with their red and orange littered
limbs; jockeyed for sunniest position between
the Saint Lawrence and Mohawk river valleys –
each seemed to empathize with the
thick tissue warming your cocoon.

I waddled with backaches

(your tiny foot stuck sharp in my rib cage,
little fists rearranged the soft cushion
of my bladder, for the best comfort no doubt)

along the shores of Lake Champlain
as we searched for the elusive
Champie, dodged dead eels
along the beach.

On August 17th, 1981
in America’s version of Scotland’s
great glen, when you first squirmed
in the crook of my arm,

I thumbed the small “m” of your lips,
counted every tiny finger and toe,
each flexed with infant content
while you suckled with new-born greed
on the sore tip of my breast. –

I love you Drew�