by Barry Koplen
in search of Solomon

didn’t you know ?
is it so hard to see that every minute
with my child
is precious as his first breath ?

do you see these hands ?
in this one, his face rested
as my forearm cradled his chest,
his button sized heart,

his legs and toes that loved
to curl and pinch folds
of his mother’s skin.
I speak for him now.

no, that is not true.
I cannot.
he is gone. I cannot find him.
do you know where he might be ?

why should you ?
he is not yours.
a rage consumes me.
it is as a fire that claws

at the mountains that ring L.A.
it is as that spark of me
that beats in his heart.
hear it pound, too, in mine, my son.

it started as a whisper in your mother’s ear.
now it is as that well of hope
in the torchbearer’s chest
that heaves with the work of his relay.

here, my son,
my hands reach out for you,
know this, my son, till then
my rage will not be stilled.

Copyright ©1998 Barry Koplen.
All rights reserved.

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