Prelapsarian
For Joshua
My nephew is uncoiling
a green garden hose
to sew the spring
together.
He’s three,
conductor and guardian
of everything he sees:
harmonica he plays,
toy trains
he never lets fall
off the tracks. From this height
it’s not a swift descent—
it happens
day by day. Soon he’ll understand
better what America is:
flag glinting
in an astronaut puzzle,
history taught wrong.
Tomorrow he’ll remember
yesterday
with bright rascal
eyes, their light asking
to unspool the hose again.
I’ll let him
spray water
for the joy of it—I’ll delay
my lesson on
waste.
Rivulets
on the road will bless cars
driving by, echoing
my Babaanne
in Turkey,
tossing glasses of water
after her children
when they left—
may your path
be smooth as a stream.
My grandma in her doorway,
barely bigger than
my nephew
on our curb: custodian
of passing strangers,
monarch of the lawn.
