The Echo Chamber

She sat on the bed and I sat on the
chair and the woman in
green scrubs came by
and closed the
blinds

‘Do you want something to
drink?’ she asked

and her face was plane and
kind

and I wondered what it takes to
work in this place

Then the nurse came back with
the methotrexate

and asked my wife which side
she wanted it

Then she gave me the plaster and
gave her the injection

She put the needle in the sharps
bin and that was
that

my siblings and I were born.             with stones in our hands
in an evening the colour of copper       we watched a bird sing
on the telephone line                    & then the bird was dead at our feet
there was silence                        no one blinked an eye
there are a million unexplained things   on this side of love
why                                      I do not know
we stopped caring                        why you would buff the stone
we stopped asking                        why you would stone the bird
for forgiveness                          the day we all blinked at the same time
our parents choked on apologies          it caused an earthquake
it was too late                          a bird fell dead at our feet
we had already killed                    & the evening turned
everything there was                     to copper in our mouths

The Boy turns 45 today
Like always he’s laid to my right, sleeping and warm.
I’m waiting for our children to shuffle in.
Laden with surprise birthday breakfast
and singing happy birthday to you -
while also trying not to spill a fresh cup of tea.

They’ve done this since they could walk.
A tradition I don’t remember us starting,
not on purpose at least.
Prized and precisely planned for all the same.

Child sized hands clasping bags of brioche,
stowed away secretly with the bedtime story.
An expanding menu now held in bigger hands.
Beautifully, inexpertly wrapped treasures,
handmade cards and cartons of orange juice.

They’ll sit on the other end of the bed,
always arranged oldest facing me, youngest to him.
They used to sit on our feet, and we just adapted.
Lengthening limbs in a small space still fit somehow.
Charlie Buckets grandparents’ style.

It’s rare they come in our room otherwise anymore.
Their first bedroom, their feeling sick room,
bad dream recovering room,
drying hair after bath time room.
Mostly just birthdays and Christmas morning room now.

Crumbs will still sprinkle our sheets.
Wrapping paper balled into a rubbish box or bag.
Their eager eyes watching him open their gifts,
impatient to explain choices and delivery tribulations.
Soft smiles and silent when he reads their cards.

Every birthday and Christmas, as they age,
I wonder if the last time has already happened.
If this is the first time we do it differently…
Then I hear the padding feet going downstairs - and back up.
Unhushed whispered debates about time right outside our door.
And the rustle of brioche bags.

I wait too long to turn
At the yellow blinking arrow
Overly cautious
Because even though the carseats
are empty

The anxiety remains.
Look twice, drive slow, hands at ten and two
No—nine and three
Ten and two will break your stupid wrists
The exploding airbag shattering bone
Shards straight into your face
And a bad mother is still preferable
to a dead mother.

Right?

Nine and Three.
Look twice.

Sometimes I wish I could flip the switch
turn it off, take it off,
But motherhood isn’t an ill fitting dress that looked better on the hanger
It’s a sprawling face tattoo
And I’m surrounded by mirrors
(Check more than the mirrors for cars in your blind spot!)
Everywhere
Everyday
Reminded that my body has been altered
And you can no longer see the old me
Beneath the ink

You lay on the horn
And I let a bird fly,
Because after all, the carseats
are empty
But the expletive catches in my throat
Because a good mother doesn’t swear
And I swear
That’s all I want to be.

Pink cheeks, precious beads,
Polka dots and teapots,
Perfect princess party—
Playful and polite.

Patient parenthood,
Pleasantly portrayed—
Passionate picture,
Profoundly peculiar.

Personal protest:
Purity pretends,
Pride and pain project,
Power proves pointless.

Palatable past?
Profuse prayers,
Papa protection—
Peaceful present.

  The plants have all died since she left. You can’t seem to get it right —
  the amount of water to give; which are winter fruit
  and which you should wait for summer for; how to run the bath at the exact temperature that soothes
  the child’s body. He doesn’t mind.
  He’s more patient than you. In the house, most of the lights stay off now.
  The  cars collect dead leaves in the driveway.
  One day, during melon season, you’ll both walk out of here
  as men. The plants will stay behind.