On telling my 13 year old grandson of the birth of his cousin

by Meg Campbell


Desmond arrived, I announce,
as Callum climbs into the front seat.
You’ll be 26 when he’s your age today.
You might not be here, Callum says.

When aged nine, Callum accompanied me
to receive an award etched in glass.
On the taxi ride home
he asked,
Can I have it when you die?
Take it now, I said.
Our gaze locked, our eyes moist.

Now driving, I insist,
13 + 68. It’s not that old.
He differs.
Graduating high school.  Probably not.
Or when Desmond’s 21.

That is the way now.
There are no crumbs to follow.
The birds have flown away
or to the highest branches
where I crane to see them
but cannot.
My eyes and joints
like a car in Havana
past her glory -
rusty but buffed.

Time, health too,
I add to my list.
I imagine how I will die.
Please not burned alive.
For all my morbid thoughts
I am happy.
Saw Baltimore orioles
at the feeder this summer.
Puffed chests of yellow.


* * * * *

Meg Campbell is the author of two collections of poetry, Solo Crossing and More Love (Midmarch Arts Press, NYC).