At the steel pier.

Stanford, Eleanor

The boardwalk creaks between
Trump Castle and the dark
Atlantic. I strap my son into
a rickety motorcycle ride,
then stand behind the gate
and watch his face:
the fear, the heartbreaking
three-year-old intensity.
I want to take him back
into my body: tide-swell
I followed only as far
as the black swirls of birth-slick hair.
The teenager operating the ride
removes his foot from the pedal,
it clanks and jolts
and stops at last. Unbuckled, my son
is running toward me,
proud and shaken. Behind us
the Ferris wheel spins,
seats swinging on its spokes
of light. How I held him then.
How I gripped the bed's chrome bar.