Amy Cuneo

My Son

My son a ceaseless being
rolling like seaweed inside me
My son a jutting root, a problem, a percent,
A scale on the quality of life
My son
My son, not even a breath has pierced your lungs yet
and already I’ve heard things said about
shuffling you out of here

For you are a detour
a detour down a winding gum tree road
inside sparse grey-green-grass
and loose rocks
where brown water dams feed cattle and
shade is whisky
You are backwater
out where yabbies quietly go about their days
unnoticed under unflinching sky.

You are pitch black night sky littered
with smatterings of vivid stars
Opening wide the dark unknown

(And as I wake in the night racing and frightened
I rehearse my speech again and again to defend you)
He is our home
He is home
Our son.