They Will Forget Me

A Narrative from Childhood

Before you were born

Father sang lullabies

And Mother read books

In voices for only me. 

Her belly is bee-sting swollen.

You will be here soon.

I press my face to Grandfather's

White bristles. His hearing

Aids whistle under the hug.

I press my ear

On watery gurgles

As Mother combs her fingers 

Through my hair. Your heel

Distorts her elastic dome. 

She kicked!

Stretching my night shirt

Over a beach ball

And pressing my palms

To my lower back I mimic 

Her posture. 

Her low-hanging globe-belly. 

The crease of her navel, 

A fleshy button. 

You will be here soon.

 

Visitors bring gifts:

A bassinet by our parents' bed,

Cloth, plastic and plush.   

I am handed a book I don't want.

I sit in the white crib with my thumb 

Shoved in my mouth. 

I wake up to Father's black mustache 

And shiney bomber jacket

Above me in the night light. 

He carries me

To our mute sedan's backseat. 

Mother is breathing heavy. 

He slides behind the wheel.

His knuckles, as white as the building 

We approach lit with red letters

And crosses. She exhales

Slowly. 

Father doesn't park. 

A man in green paper

Wheels a chair to the passenger

Door. They disappear

Through automatic sliding glass. 

Hanging over the front seat 

I see a deep red blotch 

Where she sat, shining

Under dim parking garage lights. 

I watch it spread. 

 

Father pulls my sleepy stagger 

Towards florescent rooms

And blinding linoleum tiles. 

I am given to nurses 

And a doll with silky hair.

 

A low cry and moan, 

I know Mother's voice. 

She's alright. 

Your mommy's going to be just fine.

My eyes have no interest in toys.

 

I am led into a room with breath

Mint walls. Mother is laying 

In a thin metal bed,

But she smiles. 

I am pulled by the armpits 

And placed in a chair 

By her side.

I spoon ice chips to her 

Parched lips, through the gap 

Of her front teeth. 

When her breathing deepens 

I am back to crayons

And the doll, still plastic

Tagged. 

Moans become groans, 

                   Then short, 

                                  Sharp cries. 

My wide eyes stare down 

                   The reflective floor. 

 

It is morning when Grandfather picks me

Up to a sea of wrinkled faces 

And bloated fists

Wrapped in sterile white. 

Floods of gawkers and fawners, 

Hovering and cooing over your 

Soft brown eyes 

And side-mouth spit-up. 

  

When you are old enough to walk 

We share a room and bunk beds,

And I will spy your drool-coated fingers 

In the closet frame.

With a jerk---as if a reflex, 

I send the heavy wood door 

Careening into your tiny bones. 

They crunch, but don't break. 

Your eyes beg through tears 

To understand why.

I tell our parents 

It was an accident.