Emily Paige Wilson

New Year’s Eve on Market Street

Ezra has only begun to mouth sounds
that meet the ear as words in the past
two months. We take him down
to the river to watch the fireworks 
explode into their own red and green 
vowels. He’s just learned boat and moans
the o as if his small body knows what it is 
to sink. Situated on my hip as the night
cries phosphorus and copper, Ezra is caught
among the colors, his pupils a wide glass
cut to hold the moment. As he waves
his hands in tiny excitement, a glove
falls to the ground. Astounded by the sharp
sting of cold air, he stares now at his fingers.
Ow, ow until the hand is once again
covered. I wonder who has taught him
to first feel unknown sensations as pain,
the probability that it was me.