As a child, small and sick
and sad and quiet, my mother
doted over me in fear—
Achilles dipped into nothing
but the crook of his mother's arms;
child of promise, held to breast
even as my father, one midnight,
stormed out of the house in anger
at my mother who wouldn't
put me down to bed, the night bleeding
long into a sorry song of vengeance.
God knew already
that I wouldn't die as a child.
In my little loaded heart, I did too.
But who wouldn't want
a story like mine? To be
the bone of contention lodged
in the fleshy meat of marriage.
I mean, don't you dream
of something greater than love—
an apothecary potent in its delight;
walking into a room and seeing
someone storm out, leaf-eyed
and green with envy? O body,
battered and dying, I say nothing
about that animal called regret.
But it's been years
since the child in you was held.
Faithful in your cruel work, you tally
the absence like clockwork.
How could I not look at you,
how my father, that night, must have,
before the storm that gathered
and broke, to see all the love
that should have been mine
held hostage in a sickle cell?
The truth is not far from the wound.
The only times I have been poured
a decent measure of love
has been with my body folded over
in crisis.