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All it Takes

All it takes is one look at their monumental bodies,
bare-chested, hammers pounding on the fence.

A mother’s not supposed to see that bit of belly hair
where their denim waistbands dip low.

What do the tattoos that stain their forearms proclaim? 
Their miraculous freedom? A confinement in their inherited days?

All it takes is an oak bud rising from the acorn that survived
the squirrel. Or a blue gill, wake-tossed and self-stabilized

by the minute fanning of its cellophane fins. Evidence--
under my nose, its needle under my skin. Ha!

What’ the matter with me? Did I suppose the proof 
would tumble from the bookshelf and shout my name?