August 15, 2016The Draft of a Messiah
I’m not sure what sounds escape
when a false messiah sings. If lips
part gently, while tongue pushes
out noise that mimics semi-truck
collision, or if it’s a burst of two-
hundred hummingbirds fluttering
at the same time.
So when my mother asks for me
to sing to her, as blood runs down
her nose. I can’t. There’s not a note
etched onto my skin that reads off
a hymn of salvation.
In her delusions I am a messiah,
something supernatural that can fix
everything, and my human fragility
is muted. I cannot cut at lower back,
pull out, and beat my liver into hers.
My mother’s voice eventually cracks
after repeating over & over, “It hurts.
Everything hurts. Save me. Why won’t
you save me? Help me.”
I sing out doctor, medicine, ambulance.
Words that sting. She realizes I am false
messiah, a draft of a prayer unanswered,
but somewhere in my eyes she sees a glint
of daughter lingering.
It’s enough for her to hang on, enough
for her to mouth out daughter over &
over. In tears I reply, “Mother, mother
stay with me,” while wiping her blood
away with my sleeves.
from #52 - Summer 2016