Stories I Cannot Tell
Here’s the story I want to tell—each morning
I got up before dawn
to make the fire and cook
rice, and while the water boiled,
I hung on a strong branch of the pomelo tree
because I thought it would make me taller
I’ll explain the way I fastened
on a headlamp at four am
to cut and drain the rubber trees
before class; it’s how I paid for college
because after my parents paid my sister’s ransom
there wasn’t any money left for me
But I cannot tell those stories;
they belong to my neighbor
My stories are bland and white
like milk
As for heritage? My father’s Dutch last name,
and my mother’s Irish hair, no other language
spoken but English, unless you count
the way we used words like laceration
and dehiscence when describing
our wounds
Once, my family left a Halloween party and
noticed police cars and an ambulance
racing into the parking lot of a bar, and
although he was dressed like a farmer,
my dad followed the sirens and
rushed in to find a man with a gun-
shot to the chest; he started compressions,
rode with him to the hospital
and came home later with blood spattered on
his straw hat and overalls
My mother was frightened of water and held
her breath when we drove over bridges
When I was older, I found out
that when she was six,
her brother drowned and she
couldn’t forget the way my grandmother
fell to the ground when given the news
I screamed in fourth grade when a boy named
Andrew pushed me against the school’s
brick wall and kicked me in the groin
he pinched my arms and thighs
I did not know that my cousin Andrew
forced my younger sister to do shameful
things; I thought the hidden bruises on my
thighs were the worst thing a boy
named Andrew could do
As I write them down, these
stories seem too meager
to compose a childhood
so you’ll forgive me if I
mention the time I left
the rice unattended, which allowed
the dog to steal my family’s breakfast and
fearing my mother’s wrath, I ran away into the
woods, and when I became hungry,
I ate the fruit that grows along the forest floor
The Complication
The baby is still feeding
when I’m rushed back
to the operating room.
My legs are numb so I do not feel
the clots which soak the sheets.
He scrubs my abdomen and
prepares to open the incision so
recently closed.
I need some help he shouts
as I plunge into
brilliant darkness.
Here, there is nothing but time.
My oldest son sprints ahead of me
on a beach in Malibu.
I round the bend and do not see him,
and now the waves turn violent.
I fall to my knees and scream
his name—Nathan!
He laughs. I look up
and see him conducting
the ocean as he
stands atop a small bluff.
The sons who haven’t arrived
hover in the shadows and whisper.
It is dark and I cannot see
the color of their eyes.
But I already know their names.
Unexpectedly, the sky lightens.
My fussy newborn is placed upon
my chest and quiets.
Oh Luke—
you of copper hair and warrior eyes.
So new I cannot bring myself to say
your given name aloud.
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