The First Time I Read Harry Potter To You
It was a night I tucked you in,
pink and soft,
from your bath:
lavender soap and a warm water rinse.
Your eyes, like planets, little Neptunes,
swirling, round a solar system,
captive of my face;
looks we saved to tell each other;
a hook to hang our secret secrets:
and I stood at the window to catch your dreams.
Mothers and daughters,
soaking up tempers,
flared by suns,
fading out of
into rest and respite, now.
In easy form,
your body gave
to cool, crisp sheets:
Your pillow melted
with still-damp hair.
At sundown, I threaded my arm
around your neck,
gone limp, and
settling with the hush of dusk.
The moon was high,
but not yet full.
I saw one star and made a wish.
A story of a wizard boy,
his loyal friends,
who hovered there,
like the mobile from your infant nights:
pulling our eyes,
backlit by a galaxy,
all ours for now,
to grab or stare,
to keep or stash in
Transfixed, we were and hoped to be.
It wrapped us in a mist so sweet;
so plain, it was that weaved us in;
it was the loom that knit our hearts,
happy cat and silver cradle,
strings so tight and yoked-soft yarn,
invisible cloak of quilted love and
smells and memory.
It was ordinary, and it was magic:
our balm of treatment trusted, true.
Your eyes, like planets, dripped to stars,
sped up time and slowed me down,
fast-falling through the atmosphere and
freeing what I could not see;
the faraway light I stopped to notice,
when it reached me.