God of Song

--Tracy K. Smith

My son listens into daylight,

head tilted, eyes tuned 

past the range of  the seen.

What he seeks to see is 

vibratory. A butterfly’s itch. 

The pitch at which a mind

is freed to dart, spark, break

into flight. His gaze rakes space. 

What does his ear see? Beads 

of  breath rising from the body 

of a bee. A whiff of rain batting 

a new green leaf. I watch him— 

tall as a man with cheeks 

soft as plums—coax music 

from pure air: trash bins 

dragged across pavement. 

An ant staggering under 

the weight of a crumb. I’ve 

watched him birth a tune,

held in that rite like a moth

in porchlight. Dispeller

of sorrow. Flame maker at

the holy pyre. All that repeats—

though it might tear out from 

the breast and ravage the air 

on its way to the timid heart in its 

hollow lair—all that repeats 

is sweet. Sand in honey. Gold 

doused with blood. Birth pains 

obeying love’s pulse and tug. 

My water broke weeks early

to his body needing out. Knees 

drawn, and that first long note—

All that repeats and repeats 

to survive. Heart tone. Hunger 

yawp. Fear handled by want 

and love. All that repeats 

and repeats. All that repeats— 

let it be sweet?