Post-Script to Triskele, for Sukha

On the morning of that poem
Composed for your third birthday

You woke me up at the exact minute
Of your birth, and would not sleep

Until I placed my hand on your head,
The same head I caught in the same

Hand, both wreathed in mother blood.
Later you woke again to balloons

And decorations that Mama set
Out in the night, as if your birthday,

So close to Christmas, was a kind
Of Christmas, or to commemorate

Her own long struggle through
The midnight of labor. You asked

To hold one of the balloons.
I gave you a cookie as a treat,

And before I had to leave for work
You had me retell you the story

Of your birth from Mama's belly,
And you and I howled together

Briefly, head to head, to reenact the part
When Mama and I howled you home.