My son points at a hawk & says Ha ha ha,
binoculars like a brick around his neck.
I know what he means.
Even songbirds like starlings stutter,
& he loved the idea that graceful,
Shakespearean things could stumble
over whistles & clicks.
We discovered it in first grade
when he told all the dimes to die,
before he learned to say something
other than what he meant.
Instead of lotus he’d say low flower.
Goodbye became only a wave.
He could ask, Do I have what grandpa has?
He could say his tongue is anchored in his stomach.
But there was a time he couldn’t say I love you
without an echo on the “I,”
so he made his hands crack like a heart.
His eyes are never brighter than the days
we go out watching for birds. I can hear him
speak & see exactly what he means.
Under just the right conditions,
he’ll shout Star star star star
& then stretch out his arms like wings.
Seth Peterson is an emerging writer, researcher, and physical therapist in Tucson, Arizona. His poems are published or forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Pirene’s Fountain, and elsewhere. He serves as an Associate Editor for JOSPT Cases and teaches nationally with The Movement Brainery.