On Seeing You, My Son, Overmedicated for the First Time

I drive us through the drive-thru
& you misaim the fries to your mouth;

flimsy, undercooked strands dropping
on your lap, in the crack beside the door—

that impossible place to reach. Not like
how you once straddled my shoulders &

I held your knees as you stretched
to grab hold of the dogwood branch

for a closer look at fledglings, begging,
as you did then, too, for fast food.

You tell me you’re fine. But you look like
the blue jay in the refuge I extended twigs to.

Through a chain-link fence, offerings added
to its harbored nest while it waits to heal.

And while you sleep, I sweep the car seat, the mat,
toss uneaten fries outside where another bird flies,

claims one & flits back to the forsythia bush
below your window, a stubbled spray of pale buds.

Image: “Dropped french fries” by Elyaqim Mosheh Adam, licensed under CC 2.0.

• Author
• Recent Posts

Christine Jones

Christine Jones lives in Orleans, MA and is the author of Now Calls Me Daughter (Nixes Mate Review, 2022) and Girl Without a Shirt (Finishing Line Press, 2020), also co-editor of the anthology, Voices Amidst the Virus: Poets Respond to the Pandemic (Lily Poetry Review Books, 2020). She is the founder/editor-in-chief of Poems2go and associate editor of Lily Poetry Review. Her poetry can be found in numerous journals and anthologies in print and online.

Latest posts by Christine Jones (see all)

• While Swimming in Pleasant Bay, I’ve Come to Realize - October 13, 2023
• On Seeing You, My Son, Overmedicated for the First Time - August 24, 2021