writhing and gasping under the weight of two hands, rocking

back one forth two, back one

and forth two

mama, i need you to know i’m sorry for who i see looking back at me

i need you to see my own two hands come up grasping and heaving and rubbing and kneading for breath, 

reworking feeling to my red-stained face

only the corners of its eyes stained brown,

a kiss hello and goodbye from each tear to have streamed down my chin

in cascades or in bursting pipes

an old man my grandfather’s age is in me

just as much as is a crying child my brother’s age, 

blubbering and wailing,

like an old man has long forgotten how to

these hands

have done so much for me

scooping and carving, like the flesh of a grapefruit left in the sun or a sculptor’s clay

like chisels and picks and scalpels taken to my face 

like curvature needing to be reshaped

hungry hands, hungry work

and i’m so sorry, mama

i’m holding a crying child in my arms

back three and forth four i rock, arms tight and enfolded around

every fractured bone, every cracked rib, 

every bit of charred and calloused and guilted shame burning a hot white rod through the tangled cradle of my body

i let it enfold me

i let its scalding hands take the wind i breathe from my lungs in a tightly-clasped fist, a punch to the chest

there is no sound in return

(i know the corners of my eyes will have browned by morning)

but a hitched breath five

and life caught within itself