Scavengers

He was born into a land
where vines curl across fields
and summer cicadas sing him to sleep.

He is a scavenger,
finder of forgotten things.
Hawks, fishhooks, pliers. 

He throws sticks
until ripe mangoes fall
freshly bruised on the ground.

He spots treasure on the freeway,
asking to snatch the bucket, the boot,
and something he swears was an owl. 

We discover a pulsing soul,
so he wills his wildness away
while I give my body to bear

Our son was born into a land
where power lines slice the sky
and lawn mowers sing him to sleep.

The cinder walls know
that he inherits more than
a gutter-swiped soccer ball.

When he hops tide pools and
spots tiny shrimp that squirm,
invisible to the careless eye
we will be ready.