I cradle my daughter in
that nook between bedtime
and sleep. Her breathing
settles, a calming sea,
when a memory of a photograph
sails to mind: a boy washed
up on some Grecian beach
face planted in the sand
like an exposed seed.

I ask the night:
What fruit comes from such
a seed? What will
it bear?

His father’s voice answers
me between shadows
of stuffed bears
(so similar to my own)

–nothing yet everything
–nothing yet everything
–nothing yet everything

By Stephen Briseño

Biography:

Stephen Briseño’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Memoir Mixtapes, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, 8 Poems, formercactus, Bone & Ink Press, and Rabid Oak. He lives in San Antonio with his wife and daughter, teaches middle school English, and drinks far too much coffee. Follow him on Twitter: @stephen_briseno