Endless Knot

for Tavi

I hold the swaddled package
of my hour-old grandson,
hands and arms golden
in the aura of his
newness.
Though hospital protocol deems him
a biohazard—vernix and birth goos
not yet removed—
I feel the tendrils
of our hearts
intertwine.

I moisten these cords
with tears,
and know
I am
a goner.