Bequest for My Son

I have reached down my throat
many times, pulled out what I could.
To make myself smaller. To scrape away
what my mom gave me.
Her gifts were not wanted.
Here, take them.
I would also give you the word teeth.
Is that too much like coal
in the stocking, throat
crafted by years
of erosion? Teeth too
have been rubbed and worn.
On a related note:
Rock. Stone. Sand. Grit. Bone.
Things that make a stream bed,
with water for linen and fold and pillow.
Fury. I give you fury, too, that
which fills the body. One minute,
you’re standing there, feeling like cake
or steam or warp. The next, after a bucket
of cold, you’re all buzz and weft.
It’s not like I have to give you these words,
which lie on the side of the road like
mud and gravel. The other day,
you announced that I had
crossed the Rubicon.
How did you get that, my boy?
Who passed you that stick?
When did you put on that armor,
bumping it onto those 13-year-old shoulders?
And why did it fit?