Scapular for Parenthood 2.0

I. Outward Bound 
            for Jack 
 
He's gone for fourteen days enforced retreat 
to hike, canoe, rappel, pitch tents, decamp, 
and then repeat. Two full weeks: blister, limp, 
ache, scratch, bleed, shiver, fester. And no tweet, 
text, or post will be allowed. The complete 
exploit requires wrenching from the womb 
of the web and a willingness to plumb, 
over two days camping solo, his state  
of heart. Good for him. And for me, although 
I’m inward bound—to somewhere fundamental. 
I have found I, too, am tethered to always 
knowing; to maps; to compelling the flow     
of all our tides. Can I learn to dismantle 
this shelter, frame cover for a new phase?  
 
II. On Missing Cymbeline 
            for Isobel 
 
I had to choose, and choosing, missed your play, 
then spent a weekend mired in regret. 
As posts poured in, I could brightly say, 
“I hear she's great,” but thought, “I'll never get 
to see this. Ever.” Might see video's  
indifferent version, but not the breathing 
presence of performance. Won't hold you close, 
to feel your thrill at having done this thing. 
I do, of course, know—without report—how 
you inhabit your part, how your tones sweep 
convoluted syntax into order. Now 
watchful years pay: I see Imogen sleep. 
Widening orbits require this device: 
Love's visions of your triumphs must suffice.