NaPoWriMo #12

Holding you like I might a bottle of wine

On my favourite sofa. both eyes reflect
over my shoulder
your mother, left. your father, right.
Each one separate and both combined

Your father’s face, a pride you cannot yet fathom
through blurred vision where people become the air.
And hers, simply in disdain of your
furrowed brow to do so.

Outward from those gleaming irses,
micro-film to read under a voice projecting later,

in my hands, one
cradles your tiny head,
the other on the small of your back,
no wider than a handspan.

I hope, for years to come,
it is impossible to watch your
developing ouevre of faces
without seeing one, or the other,

in either eye.

.

For G.L.

Night.

Fionn Coughlan-Wills.