Sherry Stuart-Berman

but it’s his green, can I steal it? He’s 12, says he doesn’t understand my poems, says, they’re like this: grass, magnified by the eyes of the earth. “My tree,” “my sea,” “my sky,” his first words back then and wow, this planet, some promise we make, huh? Like broken microscopes we fail to magnify god. When my son and I fight my face bolts— tongue storming fast behind— and iris open, he’ll stop, adjust focus, condense light into lens. Just like that.

I go off my meds. In front of my eyes black spots float. It’s 3 a.m. and here’s where I’m small. That bald patch in our yard never seems to grow, airless dirt packed tight.