A Prayer For My 17-Year-Old Son on the Other Side of the Door

Let me flatten my soft spots, roll out 
my breasts like batter dusted with flour. Let me 

press down on my pointed, mothered parts. Sweeten 
my edges until I cut like butter. Knead me into a shape 

as thin as time and slide me under his door. Let me 
rise like dough. Let me mist into the air he breathes. Let me 

settle within him. Let me slip into spaces he locks 
and let me leave my tracks all over the floor of his secrets. 

Give me the passwords to his silences and let me grieve
beside him. Turn my womb into water and let me swim

in the sea of all I'll never know. Let me be still. 
Let me stand at the mouth and watch what he won't let me see. 

And then, let me tuck a piece of this wet love of mine 
into the cave he's come to call home. Let him feel its throbbing, 

silver dollar weight. Let him taste the burnt offering imprinted 
on his tongue at birth. Let him remember all his eyelashes 

have names. The word beloved belongs to him. Oh, God—
just for today—please let me be enough.