I Named You Jacob Daniel

by Amy Kitchell-Leighty

You have green eyes,

freckles sprinkled

across your nose.

Bathtime means you

in the kitchen sink,

me holding a fuzzy blue towel

to wrap you up.  You fell

from the monkey bars

in second grade, three stitches

in your left knee and a trip

to Dairy Queen—

I with a chocolate malt,

you with a double scoop

Rocky Road.

I named you

Jacob Daniel

and sometimes think

I see you

playing football

in the park.

When you were thirteen

you got caught smoking

a Camel swiped

from your Aunt Jennie.

Your hair is the color

of the bark from the pear tree

I helped my father plant

beside our home in 1988—

two years before

you were sucked

limb by limb

from me as I

lay on a table

stretched out and sleeping,

my mother in the waiting room

clutching her stomach.

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Filed under Issue 7, Poetry

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