a little nutmeg, a sprinkling of sugar.
I fold a palm to your chin and wipe at your tears,
and my kiss lingers on your freckle-dusted skin.
Were you the baby I suckled all those long years ago?
Were yours the feet I pressed to my face, was yours the soft skin?
Such softness had seemed otherworldly, then.
Now you cry, and your fingers are not the only fingers smashed in a door this morning;
your voice not the only one wailing.
It would be so easy to afford you just the smallest-harried-cold-hearted-mother glance.
Some mercy, though, stills me; some grace
leans me into that apple pie scent.
I see you, Son.
I see you;
you and your boy-cheeks all sprinkled with cinnamon.