My Achilles Son

My Achilles son

once clutched me

by the heel as I worked

to make myself

invulnerable.

Sulking

in the stove's half light

I bruised herbs,

watched dough heave itself

from bowls, rearranged

the dust-

and he at my feet.

Those fires

are salted down.

My hands remember only

the spell of wool:

I will cover the winter fields

with squares of knitting,

then lie down under them.

Nothing is left to happen.

Only his voice

still keeps me

like an arrow

from my proper rest,

pointing toward

the once dropped stitch,

the charred loaf,

the old disinheritance

of second sons.

Each time I lean

against the heavy shoulder

of sleep

a phone rings,

and from somewhere

I hear that voice-

then a buzz

on the line between us

from the whole

murderous hive

of possibilities.