Index of articles > Arts and Humanities > Literature and Writing publications > New Criterion articles > June 2005 articles

 
Umbilical 
 
for my mother 
 
   Not flesh but string, the line which bound your foot 
   To mine, hobbling me so you could nap 
   And not worry I would wander loose 
   Those summer afternoons. But who could sleep 
   In such light? No boy of eight. I'd wait 
   Until your breath grew even. Holding mine, 
   I'd sit up slowly, carefully work ...