Concrete Lullaby
Swimming rustic style,
horse tank,
beneath backyard slide—
for a 6-year-old
in a plastic camo vest,
fake knife,
between teeth,
action hero in training—
the air is hot,
the water cold,
perfect July.
Perfect….
Up until action hero
drops his knife,
not at all
in character,
but to make up for it,
he leans off the ladder,
not too smart
with the water
dripping
from the rungs.
Knife,
concrete,
harsh reality,
a close up
in the opposite
of slow motion.
***
Lights
fading in
and out,
blinding
until things
go black,
consciousness returns,
more lights—
arms and legs limp,
hanging out of a shopping cart—
lean over the side,
vomit
on a blurry floor,
back to black.
***
Beeping machines,
wires with suction cups,
questions—
so many questions.
How many fingers am I holding up?
How stupid do they think he is?
Struggling to walk,
legs practicing
drunken stumbling—
long before his poor life choices,
ugly romance—
as he tries
to get to the bathroom.
***
Years go by
until he learns
about the seizure
during the CAT scan,
about holding out his arms
toward his mother,
bawling
as if life
depended on it,
mother being pulled away,
too much pressure
on his brain.
To this day
moments get foggy,
facts mixed up,
and always present,
a fear
of falling,
with no one around
to find him.
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