7

To the woman lying on her back, right hand turning purple

When you turn to smile for a minute
at your husband, who's just barely
made it back for the tinfoil blanket
to wrap around your body and tucked
his bike, and yours, around the corner
of the park, I ache to jump the curb,
to grab your twisted fingers and drive off.

It's not my fault, really, not wanting
to be here. I wasn't there when my mom
slid off her sled the wrong way, bashed
her kidney into a rock, peed blood
for five days. Nor was I there
when my grandmother slashed her calf
open while fishing knee deep in
a Montana river. But when I stand there,
listening to the story, I understand fluidity.

I choose language over relation, finding
the jumping tongue sharper than the snap
of my mother's fingers after I gaze sideways
for a half second too long. Sometimes,
I want to strangle Babel. To wrap my jacket,
like the tinfoil around you, and unleash
a flurry of Pitbulls and spit, listening
for a scream. But what would that sound like?