I’m the still image of their helpless boy

Housed in a wooden frame

Frozen in place

By the hands on their watches

–

Their eyes are lost in memories

Of his cartwheeling joy

Their boy of age nine

With bat wings across his shirt

–

I’m a polaroid in their scrapbook

Despite my fading cries

Our leap across time

Dulled my childish fears

–

I’m still theirs

Just sharpened  

By the earth’s jagged stones

Framed in the same armor

Of their warmth and devotion