Sunblock

If I ever were to bake a cake

it would be for you,

and I’d color in the icing

like spreading sunblock on your face.

 

I like to get you while you sleep—

the best is in a car—

so I can butter every toe

and beneath your pillow feet.

 

Underneath your feet because

at the beach you will crawl

then turn back up and hook a foot

in the elbow of your jaw.

 

Sometimes you fart, snore or sigh—

show me you approve

of the cold sunscreen I rub

onto your miniature thigh.

 

I get the grace to growing old

each time a rim of white

forms a stencil from your ear

and records your neck’s fat rolls.

 

Daddy speaks from the front seat,

bids to leave you still.

Oh, but your fresh bread hands,

and you sleep and I don’t hear.

 


 

This poem is from my forthcoming book mid-life, which I offer today to all the incredible moms out there. Happy Mother’s Day!

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