Mother and Son and Not a Sailor Between Us

You’re on a boat. I’m on the dock.
I bring you plates of pumpkin bread!
as if my exclamation mark could fool you
into wanting it, when we both see
it’s a plate of plea, a slice of anchor
to ingest. You stare at me as you bite.
Your eyes grow wide like a falling man.
I’m standing on the dock, telling myself
you need me here to remind you there’s a shore,
but your wide widening eyes—I grab the gunwale,
and as my hand grasps the edge, my ribs,
my ribs collapse, sucked into a hole I know
I’ve fallen through before, chasing
my father’s boat as it pitched and rolled, too far
for words to reach. How will you get back
if I’m not on the dock? if I’m not on your boat?
if I’m floating away on a raft of old bones?