You were born in January, in the morning of your mourning.
A child raised beneath tear-stained yellow cloth and clenched knuckles,
a child raised with his tongue always on the brink of tasting, always bitten back by sharp thoughts.
A child afraid-of this. A child afraid-of something more.
A child of wire mesh wrapped around muscle and bone,
stretching himself taller and taller each day, leaving himself behind with each spurt.
In January your eyes will be twenty-three years old
and if I stare into them until I drown, I will,
to see if they still shimmer with longing underneath a fog of vulnerable reclusion.
And I will trace each taut and straining muscle of your shoulders,
and legs; each decisively wound curl spilling from cranium to collarbone;
all these wiry bits of you that have grown to match the wires of your insides.
And you will hug me back.
Your arms, so precise and contained with the stretch and close and squeeze.
Even in embrace, I want to grab your shoulder blades
and yank them out,
your veins or your ribcage, I want to free something
so that I might feel you, loose and soft and calm; you, free.
But I will stand inside of your embrace,
wonder if I am any warmer now,
wonder if you have ever been.
Contributor: Marina Kovacs-McCaney
Copyright © 2013 Marina Kovacs-McCaney. All Rights Reserved.