LONGING MARKS
On the top of my son’s head,
slightly to the right,
is a small scar
only now,
at six months, becoming
slightly obscured by budding hair.
He would not come.
He could not come
fast enough
for the midwife who said
don’t push—
push!
for the doctor who said
there were options if I couldn’t
for my husband
who pulled my hand towards him
in a fear he wished invisible
for me
who longed to hold love
in a new way.
On the top of his head,
slightly to the right,
my son has a scar
in the shape of my heart
or the beat of his returning,
the relief of breath just visible,
no matter
the actual outline.