Coming to Grips, and: This Hunger, and: At Two Years

Coming to Grips

We are grilling out at a friend's house.Drinking a little beer, eating chips, hotdogs, hamburgers—someone made artichoke dip.

You are running in the backyard,climbing on patio furniture,chasing the dog.

Up and down and running.Up and down and running.Chasing the dog.

The other kids are playingfootball.Babies, nursing.

Your mother is inside.I can see herfrom where I'm sitting.

And I catch a glimpse of youout of the corner of my eye.You have climbed too high

on one of the plastic patio chairs,lost your balance.In one motion

I am up,arms outstretched,reaching, reaching.

I catch your shouldersinches beforeyour head hits the cement.

You laugh.You don't know how closeyou came.

Your mother doesn't see any of this.Some of the other parentssigh.

No one says anything.I am holding on to you,tight.

We wave up to momin the window.She waves back.

You say, Wee!Everyone continues to play.Someone scores a touchdown.

This Hunger

Ceiling fans and flashlights.Shoe strings and electric cords.Mashed green beans and carrots.Her best friends, the left and right breast.These things my daughter cherishedat eight months.

Before she was oneI would count the scoops of food,tally them up and tell her.Four, let's eat some more.Eight and donate to the stomach.141/2 ounces today.

And now, at two years,it's daddy . . .

I like pizza.I like pizza.I like pizza.I like pizza.

I like. I like puddin.I like puddinngg.

I like meat.I like applesas.I like.I like pizza.

This hunger.This hungergrowing.

At Two Years

my daughter and I have reached the following.

Yes, she will be a professional bullfighter.Yes, she will be a professional hopper.Yes, she will be a helicopter.I can be a helicopter, I can.Yes, she may be the pilot of a helicopter, too.

She will be a professional wrestler,A professional swimmer and diver.I can jump off the high board. I can.

A professional ballerina andbluegill catcher.

Yes. Yes. Yes.