Poem for Nico

by Lisa C. Amato

When his head smells of breastmilk and cucumber soap. When alone in his crib he notices us standing over him and his tiny body shifts into full cobra and his mouth grows into a grin, into a laugh, into a tiny dinosaur shriek. When angry cries dissolve into surrendered moans into silence. When he creeps across the floor like a salamander shoving paper into his mouth, leaving its melted shreds behind in his tracks as he moves on to discover the tangle of wires on the floor underneath the fax machine. Naked in the tub with his papa flapping his hands and paddling his legs, ready to swim. When he blows bubbles on my cheek just before bedtime and turns the pages of goodnight moon by himself. How my eyes are dark brown and his are bright blue. When he wears his uncle's 30-year-old mustard corduroy overalls and worn, brown leather boots like relics of the Second World War. When he eats his baby friend's foot, laughs out loud when he's upside down, and instantly forgives us our blunders.