when he means “poem.”
Not “pome” or “poe-em” or “pwim.”
He says “pom”
in spite of the many times
I have said the word to him: po-em.
In spite of the example I’ve set.
He says “pom,” maybe shorthand
for pomegranate, his favorite fruit,
something tart and sweet,
something nourishing, vitamin-rich.
Or maybe pomme, or pomme de terre —
something round, something that fills you.
Or does he mean something fuzzy,
something you’d hug, like pomeranian?
Or pom-pom, a thousand soft
impulses bound at the core?
Is it mishearing or a little rebellion,
a way for him to shape his tiny world?
Sometimes I think he must mean palm,
not the tree, with its shading fronds,
but a hand, open, ready to be read.
Ready to set a course for a future.
Ready to give, ready to receive,
the beauty in the exchange.
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