You are
my messed up hair
my unplucked eyebrows
every morning
the antidote to my sleep
the sweet potato stained
half snapped onsie
that never quite made it to the wash
once in a while
your naps are too long
your laughs are too much fun
and I ask God,
Did my heart beat
before you were in it?
Did my hips have a use?
Did my arms feel their strength?
Not till you were born.
My sweet disorganized son.