Things Already Lost

A dead rat could be a dead lung
except nobody wants to touch
a dead rat without gloves.

                            At the end of the funeral
                                my son asks when will she
                                climb out the box.

He learnt to say ‘pigeon’
by asking what the flattened
thing was in the driveway.

                                Each morning for a week
                                he’d run to the window waving
                                at its disintegrating wings.

Like this he learnt the perils
of grapes, to grip banisters
& stand still for sun block.

                                In the park he insists we race
                                & like any good father
                                I make my body age.

He leaps claiming victory
I feign a sadness offering
his rapture a little more time.

                                He wants to keep a leaf for a pet
                                I want to warn him about getting
                                attached to things already lost.

In the bath he needs to know
where water ends when it
disappears along with dirt.

                                At the table he folds a napkin
                                into a frail boat pushing it along
                                an edge.

We watch a snail work the earth
he asks if the trail is a thing
it makes or it leaves.

                                Ladybird blood is a firm yellow
                                containing only signal released
                                when danger’s close.

He balances a blueberry
on a spoon reaching for
my hand before crossing

                                when a cyclist is down
                                most of us will stand one of us kneels
                                nobody’s sure where to touch.