#thingslikethis

My son comes to me, holding

thirteen severed tulip heads.

A present he's made just for me.

I knock the flowers from his hands,

grab him by the arm, move quickly

from the crime scene.

I explain: the lake, the trees, flowers, birds--

do not belong to us.

I watch something bright and alive

go pale. His head lowers like those stems,

their broken necks.

Chin against his knees, he stares.

into the grass. Does not speak again.

A mama forgets what her weapons can do.

Can't know which of her failures

will be what does it.

Tommy's turn with the belt, in fifteen years,

becomes Meghan's black eye.

Christina's twisted arm

becomes suicide without a note.

Kevin's scolding at open house

becomes only girls when they're upside down.

This morning, I found thirteen tulips

waiting nervous at the foot of my bed.

I gathered them in a blanket,

kissed each tiny face. Gave them names.

One is The Tiny Crumpled Photograph I'll Find

of Myself in the Garbage. Two, The dog

Smacked with a Tire Iron.

Three, The First Time He says "Fuck you" 

and Means It. Four, The Heavy Girl He Can't

Bring Himself to Love. Five, My Empty Wallet.

Six, Hardened Piss and Vomit on the Carpet,

seven, A Lock on the Bedroom Door,

eight, The Word "Faggot" Scratched

Across a Face in the Yearbook.

Nine, The Eighth Time He Says "Fuck You"

and Means It. Ten, Silence at Christmas,

eleven, The Shared Needle. Twelve,

Drunk at His Father's Funeral,

and thirteen, I have to press it

against my ear its voice is so thin.

Thirteen is, Mom, Do You Remember That Day

at the Park? It Was Your Birthday, I Think.

Do You Remember? How Small I was,