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POETRY

Water Sprite
by Cynthia Bostwick

My son jumps
into the deep end
goes straight down:
I resist my need
to reach for him,
let him bring himself
to the top.
Water glazes
his brown face,
his smile is broader
than before he leapt.
Through watery myopia,
he grabs
my hungry hands,
and breathes at last:
a hearty sigh.
"I want to do it again, Momma,"
he says,
once again buoyant,
out of my reach.
My eyes brim,
nothing pleases
and terrifies
me more than
the fresh bravery
of his new love:
water.

Cynthia Bostwick is a post-menopausal single lawyer mama who writes, mothers, and works in the Peoples' Republic of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her three-year-old son Benjamin is eight of her nine muses and the reason she won't give up her day job. Her poetry has been published in the Metro Times, Blueroot, and Poets Against the War, and her prose can be found in civil and criminal filings across Michigan. She blogs at Tsukismom Speaks.