I.
If your older sister
crushes her hand and gets three
concussions and
breaks all kinds of bones,
you won’t, because
those are easy mistakes to avoid:
you just won’t pick up heavy rocks
or ride horses
or bicycles.
You’re the littlest.
Out there it’s dangerous.
II.
If your only father
feels pain, pinpricks, nothing in his legs and
talks too loud and
needs surgery in a Boston hospital,
you won’t be told until
you’re too old to
accept that he
used to wake up screaming,
doesn’t talk about the Army,
and for you, this would be
his very first
life expectancy.
III.
If your mouth formed
harsh words for the
eighteen-year-short
childhood they could build you,
you won’t know how
to stop the tough love now,
to reform your views
of orange and maroon,
or to act your age
now you’ve come of it.
IV.
But let me be concrete:
My childhood built me
a thinking be
that wasn’t really
until recently.
Thinking, I find
Hell is other people
dying, died.
V.
If you were your own
daughter, thinking,
You, too, would be angry,
and cry,
and cry:
“I believed the lie you told me!”
Inconsiderate family:
I counted upon
your immortality.
a place of quarantine; gadfly syndrome is not contagious, but the afflicted may pose a threat to the population. [note well: the ravings of the stricken may be mad, but they are hers. all work belongs to the author. do not take or modify without express permission.]
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2 comments:
Pick up rocks, ride bikes, and ride horses. I should have taught you to ride a bike. I shouldn't have complained you never had to mow.
You were once perilously mortal to your older sister. That you might not survive to be born was the only reminder of death and human frailty in my childhood that really scared me.
I wonder what you would have thought about it had you been the one to spend a lot of time with grampa when he was dying.
Dad, incidentally, must be immortal, or cancer would have killed him a decade ago.
Lord I hope so.
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