nine months old, round eyes
wavering from brown to gray,
a syllable to say.
father pleads for us who wait,
invisible, all ears,
hundred thirty miles behind
world that Evan sees and hears.
'Hi' to grandma and grandpa,"
firstborn coaxes for our sakes,
if his love could galvanize
tenuous wire that absence breaks.
who comb the sky
signs that this or that is true
on the static of the stars,
tabulate, and make it do.
your breathing is all we sense,
bridging, puff by puff,
miles, the days, from there to here.
isn't much. But it's enough.
Rhina P. Espaillat
Rhina P. Espaillat; first published in
Lyric; reprinted by permission of the author.