Meet Theo

Dear Theo,

Don’t let anyone tell you an apple

tastes the same in slices as it does

in bites. Or that you won’t find

sharks and elephants and mommies

on Old MacDonald’s farm. You know

the ladybug and her captor spider

have equal rights in the weave

of life, and that metaphor can be

chewed from toast. May you find

in pirate ships the reflection

of your treasure. May you learn

from my mistakes, though they

can’t spare you. When the pain

gets too great, paper your heart

with bees’ secrets. Look to

sweetness for shelter.

"Hole in it"

he says, seated on his knees

in the high red stool, belly pressed

 

to the edge of the gray counter. My son

who has graduated from single words to

 

third person omniscient: Theo climb chair,

Theo peel orange, Theo look out window,

 

points to this strange, broken piece of toast

I am wincing from the toaster to his plate.

 

We contemplate the hole and agree

on the solution of blueberry jam.

 

As I stab the knife into the fancy jar

and swish sweetness over the flaw,

 

he chants Theo eat it, Theo eat it,

Theo eat it. And I think how alike

 

we are, anchoring action in narrative

as if this might make the moment

 

hold on a bit longer, as if in naming

something right, we release it

 

like steam from a pot

whose meal is complete.

Uncle Marc Visits

 

For just the better still photos from this shoot, you can browse Theo on Picasa Web.