Residues
Every child who listens
all night to the wind eventually knows his breathing turns a wheel pouring time and dream to leave no trace. Li-Young Lee, ‘Tearing the page’.
I imagine you are consumed
by his imminent departure, worry lines crowd your forehead leaving space for foundation to linger. The clock is ticking against your will. Prisms of revolving rooms, these visions circle, light is fat, it glistens. Every child who listens
to the sound of water running
out of the bathtub, who swims in the residue of bubbles, who remembers the outline of their mother—this is your child too. A mark of your shadow, blessedly, endlessly, your child will remain the lick of a tongue after ice cream. A melody all night to the wind eventually
crashes and falls into your lap.
Sometimes you will wish for the silence of a river being blown in all directions, for the chop, the slice of breathing working its way through cheeks puckered like orange peel. You may hope the body will be strong enough to contain him; this boy has become an eel, knows his breathing turns a wheel
deep inside your centre. You need his baking soda
texture to smooth the wrinkles of your skin. You remember nothing about life before him, except the enormity of everything else, now shrunk to the size of your pinkie. You hold his face like a lantern. His brow is a beacon, and as the darkness thickens, you worry the ripples, the haste, pouring time and dream to leave no trace.
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