This thunder is my final child. Bursting into my sleep, Gushing out of my blood, Exploding into light. The quaking when I engendered him Became the storm I waited for years To pass over, Ignoring what foundations shook, What breakage ensued. Too soon he grew and more: A rumble of doors, Turbulence as he stumbled in, Fumbled in stairwells Till I woke in alarm: So late, so early! A quickening. Rain? No. Distant flickering— Bathroom switches, A faucet confessing. Mothering is all about this: Thunder at nighttime, Rushing water, new light— The startle and succor of A son come home.