Stridor
It will not be a testament to you
your child’s life expectancy.
How this will will save you
his spindly chest inside your robe
on a stoop over Baker
Beach, the sucked space
of skin pulled into ribs, counting
the seconds of gap
until the demons release
the bark from his lungs, go nose-
diving into the Navy’s bay,
where shiplap, burning
men spread with sea lions
and chrome sleep below.
How you will hope
for oxygen, his limbs to grow
from barrels, himself to hold
a wheeze-gasping thing
offer milk from his cannons, sweep
harm from their eyes like pollen
from a windshield.
Priscilla Wathington |