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.