April 20, 2022Both Goal and Medicine
[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/LachmanGoal.mp3″]
These days, I rarely recognize my body:
jeans two sizes smaller that still won’t
stay on hips, hair pulled back in
a once-in-a-decade ponytail.
There are moments—folding up
the stroller in one muscled pull—
accidentally signing off a late-night
email Live you instead of Love you—
that I breathe out all the dying
we’ve played landlord to, even
if it’s the laser of prevention, choir
of turned faces behind the daily
numbers, begging our parents not to
leave the house again. And mostly,
it’s been keeping you alive, learning how
to make formula, to get through a day
on three hours of sleep and the hum
of wonder. I practice caring for you
as both goal and medicine, even on days
when pain takes up its usual residence.
After 20+ years, I don’t fight it, pull up
a chair instead. But I wonder how
I’ll tell you about my body without you
someday fearing it. For now, the best trick
I’ve found when I can’t stop your wails, or
you’re trying to roll over on the changing table,
is to break into “Caro mio ben” as if I’m alone,
once again, on a lit stage in a long black dress.
Without fail, it stops you, mouth open, answering
my wonder with wonder. Let me show you
this body, breaking into music, knowing
what else, no matter what, that it can carry.
from #75 - Spring 2022