Written in the Margins of, How to Turn Siren Scream to Song
It is cool. And I am tired.
Too tired to
start a fire, so I boil water.
If you were actually my
son, I would
not tell you such things—
but you are in the care of
another, so I tell
you everything. I met you
when I fist saw your father.
Odd. Yes. But how
else to explain—I broke his
ribs with the ease of cracking
open an egg. Best
night of sex I ever had. And
then you were in me. Now
it all seems
so practical, but at the time
I had mistaken vulnerability
for love. Sometime
your Dad would say he loved
me. I mistook his words for
a house, garden,
and the sound of your feet
down a hallway, frightened
by a storm,
your little self made quiet by
the heat under our family
quilt. I live all
of this, in my head. How
to tell you, No one can know
the extent of another’s loss. I
stir my tea and hear your feet.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 