Poetry

is pointless, my son says. If you write that down

I’ll kill you. I fear he fears

the attention I give it. I used to drive

till he fell asleep. Ten minutes, then silence

the river knit with ice. In tonight’s movie

a boat swerves against bullets.

He sings the movie’s theme. I kill you,

you kill me. Plot against all

that is good. Good for whom?

I know every word that rhymes

with my assailant’s first name. It’s difficult

to achieve real-world fear

in a movie. My son crawls into bed.

There’s nothing I need more than you, I say.

Not true, he says. The rudder turns

in my throat. Every sleep he needs me less.