My boy has a convex looking glass for
field excursions. I cross fingers, squeeze my
eyes in silent prayer that he is not a
cruel one. But I have my reasons. He
sleeps like his dad, like a corpse. Me, rushing
the nursery in sheer dread. No rest for
my kind. In dreams he held up a mirror.
So I stayed low, crawling, quiet. He
eyes the earth, leaving no stone unturned, no
cigarette stub unpicked. Quick chubby hands
disappear dimes, fateful screws. Recalling
each pledge in suspicious detail, my
words evaporate as they hit air, he
knows. He recounts each small white betrayal,
could be me under that glass roasting in
the sun in surrender, in relieved
repose as my edges crisp, wither. I
don’t know what I’m doing, how to do this
thing that I asked for and now am shoving
myself away. I am at a gift
shop in Michigan I am alone and
guilty, pointing to a pendant, one of
those frozen insect numbers, captured in
amber in time. I am home and all
is forgotten when he yawns, snuggle me
please. The mom dinosaur died and it made
me so sad and I hope you never go.
Shhh, am home, will never not be home.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 3.
Melanie Galizio writes poetry and fiction, plays old-time fiddle, and spends as much time in nature as Ohio allows. Her writing is inspired by motherhood, genealogy and ancestral stories, and various folk art traditions.
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