No table for my son.

No stoma formed privileges

to swaddled pill-like

his form.

 

Insertion check,

drawing out stomach content,

guessing at the placement of an internal line

down a nostril.

 

With the lost ease

of self-feeds.

 

No distraught manners.

No seating protocols.

No shifts in conversations,

that spoken well

wish you prosperity

well beyond a failure to thrive,

transcending fragility.