Brass: On Seeing the Boston Pops with My Son at Hanover Theater

In the mezzanine, he tilts his head, 
angling his right ear so that each eighth note 

shimmers like polished apples.

Each eighth swears its solemn pledge, 
rebounding off the curves of the proscenium, 

alight from the polished trumpets. 

The notes land in surges on his collar bone 
and he brings his arms up. Crosses them 

over his heart. His hands 

lightly touching the divot just below 
his throat where the music come up 

from his chest. And I can hear him 

humming, just barely. A trickle. Patterned. 
Smooth as river stones. Curving its parabolic path

across my son's enraptured face the way I know 

the arc of the sun will cross the firmament again. 
Notes rising from the mouth of brass

in ascent like the slow rays of heat 

that, for the first time in months after winter 
finally warm my skin in the late evening 

and I close my eyes as if in prayer.

Because how can I stand to watch him? 
The way the song he hums throttles me 

into feeling impossible love. How 
can I stand it? This glory? This beauty?

This singing?