Your third son
His coming home reminds me how
I watched you come home
baby doll in arms, mimicking my mother.
You have a brother.
Your sons stroke his face, not understanding yet
who he is. They practice his name.
Place football stickers in his grasping hands
“This one is for my brother.”
They know nothing of him
but the state they learned with each other.
Now, they cry when they leave the house, and him,
this snug, soft unit of shouts and whispers.
Their end of the bargain begins
with sweets, and mud, and conspiracies.
He is as much theirs as yours now.
Your hair. The eyes of his mother.
But no longer in your hands
He is always their brother.
(Please don't nick this, I wrote it myself. You can use it it you want though, but don't misattribute.)