Family portrait of a passed pawn
I feel as though my child
has died
she says
but I cannot be dead because
I am in check
she has chased me down
the family board
my brother and my father
implied squares
we pass through
on our way to
where she is not
prepared for me
to become the one piece
that moves nothing
like her
and can leap
Aubade
Eben, she says, pressing
a hand against my shoulder.
The cat must have nudged the door ajar
in the night so Mom could slip
into the room like light
around the shade. Too light light. It’s late.
Oh god I’m so late shit the bus
will be here in like zero minutes
(she presses) did I even print my essay
and will I have time (she presses) to
grab one slice of bread before
I head out the door, head, as in
my head is out the door
but actually—I am still in bed
because she holds me down,
knows my desperation, presses against it,
says, just a moment it will be okay breathe
requisitioning calm, or at least, stillness.
I make my inhale and exhale audible.
She means to spare me, the woman who wakes
at 3am to the least sound, desperate for sleep
presses like she could hold back inheritance, press
as in printing press, as in I need to check
my binder to see if I printed my essay, press as in
Mr. Hertzrog will press me for answers,
as in press conference, the flashbulbs
of their eyes will be blinding
as I enter the classroom and the headline:
Bad Boy Late for Umpteenth Time
After Eking Out Structurally Unsound Essay at 1AM
and the article will mention nothing
of Hertzrog’s insane standards,
only how kindly Mom’s hand was
and she’ll want to impress
upon everyone—the cat grown still in her arms, me
not her intent, but the cold, hard fact
that her hand was the hand of kindness,
yes, even twenty years later she will impress upon me:
History cannot be rewritten.
The cat was purring
and therefore couldn’t have been
readying its escape.
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