Jocasta Begs to be Remembered

I did not ask that he be an athlete
or miner or blessed by the gods, but I heard
boys who were touched by their mothers
became the best lovers, so I vowed
to touch my son.

I let him crawl in my lap when I needed
to eat. I moved my spoon
around his flailing body.
I let him crawl in my bed when I needed
to sleep and plaster
his jutting ribs to my bladder,
and I didn't cry, oh let me be!
I let him be.

I kissed him.
You think I won't admit to that?
I kissed his toes, his nose,
his knees, the soft down of his neck,
the underside of his thighs.
I kissed his elbows while he held
my nipple in his mouth.

He kissed me
on the cheek, on the nose,
on the chin, on the elbow.
He leapt into my arms to kiss me.

There he is, almost five,
in his green and white shirt,
holding hands with the girl
with pony tails. He drapes his arm
over her shoulders. He kisses her cheek.

Where did he learn to dangle
his fingers down, so she will
reach up and touch them?
She touches them.

Deborah Bacharach
Floating Bridge Review, 2012