Stones

We are in the backyard and

C is jumping over stones in

A gravel path that winds all

Around his legs like a river

Or how each time he jumps

His feet make landfall and

Stones spray up and out of

The path. And I am thinking

About the fullness of a river

When a storm hits. Or how.

Storms keep hitting. Hitting

Land and people. How Irma

Hit islands and now Florida.

And how Texas is still under

Water. Flooded

With water that is filled with

E-coli and sunken cars and

How no one knows.

No one knows. What is really

There. Until the water recedes.

And C is bending over. Picking

Up stones. Pointing

At me and saying yes.

And I hold my sweater out. Away

From my body. Gaping and wide

Like a stomach. Saying here. How

He should put them here.

And he picks up a handful of stones.

Drops them in. Spreading his fingers

Open and letting them go. Or going.

How he is going now. Running across

Grass and shouting. Shouting out the

Number eighteen.

Or later. How I find it.

My sweater in this dark kitchen.

A sack of stones on the counter.

And I am opening. Opening up my

Sweater and counting the stones.

Counting the stones one by one.

Lining them up on the window sill.

Or how I already know. Know how

Many there are. How C knew and

How he counted them. Like that.

In his head and quickly. Just by

Looking at them. And I walk down

The hallway. Into our bedroom and

Say to my husband he’s brilliant. Or

How no one knows. No one knows

How brilliant he is.

And my husband says yes.

And his yes is this ellipsis punctuating

The darkness. Or how every moment

Leads to another one. And I go and

Stand in the doorway and watch C

Sleep. And I know. I know his body

Is filled with sequencing numbers

And algebraic symbols.

The endlessness of a water cycle.

Bird calls and labeled bodies of

Flying butterflies.

Or how in the kitchen

There are eighteen stones

Lined up on the window sill

Like miniature sandbags.

Holding some of it back.

Holding some of it back

For now.