Vicki Wilson lives in upstate New York and hold a
degree in journalism from Syracuse University. She’s a freelance writer, and her
poems,
plays and fiction have appeared in journals including The Oregon Literary
Review, Salvage and BoundOff.
Son
There will be a last time that I carry you,
and I won't know it.
There will be no celebration,
no certificate,
as when you were born,
just the offhand thought:
"He sure has gotten big."
And when I set you down,
on your own two feet,
I'll think nothing of it,
won't see the metaphor
of the move.
