For the wedding you wore
baby’s breath in your hair
to quietly remind
that also in your dress
was a fetus tangled deep inside
in tubes and hidden rooms
atop an anatomical slippery slide.

Tiny then, as the blossoms in your crown,
but already sharing air with you
and eating smuggled food inside. 

As the baby grew
there were times
you breathed for me, too,
when I felt hot baby’s breath
down my neck
and I obsessed
on being a dad, removing
more oxygen from the room.

Yet we persevered.
Eventually you would slice
soft pears into bits   
and hold the pieces against his lips
as he moved from breast to food.
And at night I would softly sing
when he lay across my lap
as I rubbed his bony baby back
to clear his lungs of mucus strings.

Then the journey in earnest began,
leading him out of bed and onto a tangle of
streets, roads and schools, years long.
Leading eventually
to traveling a path of his own.

But this small family
that once loved and lived,
has begun to disappear today,
in the modern way,
available now only online,

where spoken words and real-time walks
have been replaced
by all breathless things:
virtual hearts,
cartoon kisses,
cyber confetti
and obscure memes.