Image copyright Warner Bros.
Watching my infant son at play
on the precipice of toddlerhood,
his jerky movements, the deliberate placing
of one hand still in the air, before waving manically
to the world, I am reminded of stop-motion animation
like The Nightmare before Christmas or the Harryhausen classics,
especially Clash of the Titans, you know the one where mortals
outfox the gods but never fate, each act of motion so fleeting yet borne of such careful plans,
the hours and days and weeks spent positioning each limb just so, to create something
timeless as a kraken and ephemeral as a Pegasus, creatures of love and devotion
behind whose movements you cannot see their creator, they are independent
and what havoc they wreak upon the hearts of Perseus and lesser men.
looking at the toys spread across the floor in disarray, I know
every second we spend together he slips further away,
replaced by some incarnation I’ll understand only
when it is time to say goodbye/hello. It’s cruel
this constant leave-taking, I think
while reaching my hand out to his
now frozen,
nowmovingfartherawayfrommeframebyframebyframe,
I say, “Please, son.
stop!”
(motion)
M. Benjamin Thorne is an Associate Professor of Modern European History at Wingate University. Possessed of a lifelong love of history and poetry, he is interested in exploring the synergy between the two. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Topical Poetry, The New Verse News, The Savannah Literary Journal, and The Main Street Rag. He lives and sometimes sleeps in Charlotte, NC.