Return to Top of Page
Menu
  • Close
  • About Us
  • Contributors
  • Donate
  • Opportunities
  • Staff
  • Submissions
  • 20 Years
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Search Website
Literary Mama
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
  • Departments
  • Blog
  • Newsletter

Poetry | August 2005

This Is The Son

By Anna Evans

We collect approving glances like party favors:
my two daughters skip ahead, and in the stroller
grins the boy I was always urged to try for, the son
an address book of friends and the odd rude stranger
told my husband he really wanted.

My seven-year-old directs his play the way
she bosses the hamster through mazes;
my five-year-old oversees diaper changes, hugs him
like her favorite bear. I’ve heard younger brothers of sisters
grow up a little spoiled, with a deep love for women.

I imagine my husband, who has so easily abandoned
a house crowded with females and dolls.
He will dabble in childcare: football, baseball,
boys’ birthday parties. There will be a catch
in his voice, a central desk photo of his son.

But this is not our son; this is the third child
I didn’t want enough, the need I smothered,
the final cord I refused to wind round
my right wrist, my writing hand.
This is the son I am always giving back.

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Share This Page

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Email
  • Copy Link

Anna Evans

Learn More

Subscribe to Our Newsletter

Don't miss out on Literary Mama news and updates

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Instagram
  • RSS

© 2023 Literary Mama | Search Site | About Us | Staff | Submissions | Privacy Policy