I pull you out of my memory’s pocket. Sit you back down in powdery sand to dig. You are three.
The six o’clock sky is a melted caramel. I marvel at pelicans soaring in slow motion across a
canvas of playful peach and magenta strokes. As if God pitied me, there is no
one else on this March evening. Earlier that day, hatted old people had dotted the shore.
Some stopped, some writhing their hands at you, face down in the
water. I could not get to you fast enough, my legs were swollen
and heavy. Mama has lost one hundred and one pounds
now, baby. I could make it to you fast enough
now. Damn autism. Damn Asperger’s.
Baby, every time I used to get you
near the ocean,
I tell you, now, I understand the world is loud. For you, too. These waves in the distance that you can ignore,
now that you are safely digging shore, crash so hard and approach so fast! I wish I could go back and
torch this fat. Now that I have made this muscle, I can grab you before you float into the pier.
I can keep the blood from pouring from your tan little arm as it was ripped by
barnacles. With my new strong legs. With my new strong arms. I lift you.
I can hold you for as long as you need me to, baby. Mommy has
her sea legs now. I can be the post to your jelly posture.
I could prevent your belly from protruding by
avoiding gluten. Your crystal blue eyes,
like the ocean, swim with sharks
of worry. Mommy will
now spear those