Something Tremendous

photo by A. Aleksandravicius

I used to lay belly down in the gold
flecked mud behind our house
with my elbow dug into grit, child-palm
pushed upward onto child-breastbone,
breastbone pulled downward onto palm
to bust open my sternum so the anguish
could release out of my mouth
into a backyard that never grew grass.
I didn’t know about anatomy then.
I didn’t know how much effort
it takes to break bone. All of my father’s
ailments ailed me too. Right now, I’m certain
I’m grieving something tremendous.
What other kind of hurt could fold me over
as suddenly as this? Nothing to amputate
or transplant. Something felt, but not.
A child harmed, but not. Can you blame me
for inching toward traffic, on my way to him?
I’m laying belly up under an aluminum roof
imagining the grace of an elephant foot
on top of my heart and how good
it would feel to be flattened.
Who can blame a child for surviving.