His little breaths are like poplar trees
sleeping among the crickets.
His sighs of hope and triumph
remind me to write him a poem
before he goes off to school.
Little Jacob’s feet are kissed
and rolled in a blanket.
Just like my Grandmother rolled mine.
His eyelashes fall upon his face
to remind me that mascara is only meant for me.
He has no such need.
His hair, braided into cornrolls
sings of days to come.
Will he be loved as much as I love him?
Before he took this little nap he shed tears for chocolate milk
of which I had none.
He consoled himself and drank the white milk I offered.
He pronounced “sippy-cup” as “tippy-cup”;
his language skills are forming.
His words are imagination.
His triumph: emancipation.
Before this little nap he played with my jewelry,
so shiny and versatile.
He molded my blue necklace into an heirloom of which
I’m conceited enough to wear now.
He gave me treasure; I did not know I possessed such finery.
He turns to his side as I’ve always done and takes
another turn in his dream.
Little goose bumps, little boy,
who naps in his Auntie’s bed.
I offer him my sanctuary, my room.
He has found mercy from the world here.
I am his superstar, and he is my king.
He functions from his soul and knows when I am tired.
The rose above my head spins when I am with him.
We were meant to be.
Many people comment about the fragrance of our relationship.
It’s just that when we are together we are such a class act.
We bejewel and bedazzle.
Little Jacob sleeps as I write him this poem.