“You almost scared us to death,” my mother muttered
as she stripped the leaves from a tree limb to prepare
it for my back.
—Richard Wright, Black Boy
My son nests—pawing
each pillow like a breast
fleshed out and so newly
forgotten. I’ve spanked him
once tonight. He takes turns
laughing, then crying, defiant,
then hungry. In his mouth
my name—all need. Pursed
lips plead, Mommy and I
am guilty of the same sin.
I miss his curled and tucked
weight. Embryo, the deepest
root yanked clean. This is why
babies are born crying
into this world, having held
fast to such an intimate tether
who willingly would let go?
But today another white cop walked
free, another black body was still
on the ground. “Not indicted”
undoubtedly the future outcome.
Four years ago I crossed labor’s
red sea of pain to birth a boy—
no doctor hit his backside, now I raise
my hand to complete an act
older than me, breaking the black
back of the boy to make a man
who can survive in America.
Mommy he calls me and my teats
threaten to weep old milk at our stasis.
Both of us needing the succor of sleep,
both of us fighting—him, to keep me near
me, punishing him to be left alone.
He crawls into my lap, his heart
is three, his body, a lanky four.
I cover him with a blanket
too thin to mean it. We rock
on the edge of his bed. Listening
to the symphony’s fourth movement:
the crescendo sweet, full of tension,
taut violin strings singing. I think
Mozart must have known something
of loving with such a tender fear
that it breaks you open like a welt
that bleeds to heal. Tonight I give up,
cuddling this boy so full of belief
in himself, I’m too tired with love
to beat it out of him.