I imagine I’m holding him again,
new born, swaddled, miniature holy man,

in hospital blanket, white wool skull cap.
He fits in one hand neatly.  I hold him

carefully; unearthed, rare, fragile relic.
Now he averts the fullness of my hug,

glancing embraces until the next time,
and the time after that, until no more.

The farthest light reaches me now from then.
I go to sleep knowing he won’t be home.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013