To My Son, at Three Days
Everyone who visits
says how tiny you are,
how little and delicate.
But I do not see it.
To me, you are larger than the world.
You fill my future
with a future of your own
that extends beyond my years.
You fill my vision
as I put my forehead to yours,
so close your features blur.
So close that you might be able to make out mine
with your fresh eyes
adjusting to the light and the cold.
My heart is forever in my throat.
You fill it with electricity and fear,
that your potential might be stifled
by me not reaching mine.
You fill my very person with possibility.
You fill my ears with gurgles, screams and
little bated breaths.
You are enormous.
An entire universe
laying between my chin
and my navel.
A Man Without a Mirror
He stood there
with all the bored self-assurance
of a part-time life model,
disinterested in the
impressions and expressions
of the scrutiny of his form.
With the apathetic vulnerability
of glazed eyes above
pale skin folds, below
unflattering lighting, before
focused pupils.
And there was something beautiful
in his anti-catwalk confidence,
the antonym of every script
of social media cameras
that keep the rest of us
glancing at mirrors.
Peter Lilly
Peter Lilly is a British poet who grew up in Gloucester before spending eight years in London studying theology and working with the homeless. He now lives in the South of France with his wife and son, where he concentrates on writing, teaching English as a second language, and community building. His work has been published in a number of journals, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Ekstasis Magazine, Macrina Magazine, Across the Margin, and Radix Magazine. His Twitter is @peterlillypoems.