Daydreaming
A knife and small plate left in the sink
overnight, next to some Ivory dish soap
only chosen because it was on sale
for another two days, which I grab
to lather the bright blue Brillo pad
with, and before I know it
I’ve mastered time travel and I am
standing in my grandmother’s kitchen,
smelling 1992 like the dogwood outside
my window. She smiles at me, and I reach
for the dirty dishes in her hand.
My Son Falling Asleep on my Chest
We haven’t spoken now
in many moments. His
twenty-five pounds press
against my chest the way
a boat floats on the water,
rising and falling
while the wind decides to take
the rest of the morning off,
our breathing coming together
like two streams, one much
narrower than the other,
the rhythm
of his tiny body gradually
calming the restlessness below
until both streams flow
in the same direction,
unable to tell dream
from day.
Brandon C. Spalletta lives a several second drive from his hometown of Herndon, Virginia with his wonderful wife and young son, and their equally wonderful Great Pyrenees. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Maryland Literary Review, WWPH Writes, Bourgeon, and others. He also had a poem in the anthology 2014 Storm Cycle: Best of Kind of a Hurricane Press.
Image © Vyacheslav Argenberg / http://www.vascoplanet.com/, CC BY 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
