<div><p>Martin's lines are a brief as breath, and cloister us at home, in winter, where the tiny everyday ministrations of love and parenthood are magnified and abundant with meaning.</p><p><i>I wanted to tell you something<br>About the shipwreck<br>Of fatherhood, of motherhood, the coarse<br>Sugar leaving us<br>Shook. Soft wreck of the baby<br>Greeting each kiss<br>With an open<br>And drooling mouth, reflex<br>We don't understand<br>Heart-blip stuck<br>Tipping my finger<br>On the keys, speeding<br>Memory of yesterday out<br>The window I'm<br>Pushing barely open<br></i></p><p><b>Chris Martin </b>is the author of <i>American Music </i>(Copper Canyon, 2007) and<i>Becoming Weather </i>(Coffee House Press, 2011).</p></div>