Dorian’s lips in ruins
and the slow song
that never catches up –her son
not yet named, almost weightless
born with a bone already broken
and his arm left to heal.
Perhaps he will remember
how sometimes even the sea
needs more room, even that tiny hand
wanting to take hold the world
–perhaps with a name, made whole
by a sound that left some far coast
shipwrecked, to make an offer.
The doctors say but what
do they know about untested currents?
He needs to be called! to be joined
and to her cries
his unfolding heart.