The news left footfalls as a pair of red,
patent leather stilettos refuse to be ignored.
Gaudy and unpalatable in my mind.
Type 1. Where 15 is a magic number. Though,
there are no casters and the world of Harry Potter
lives inside a book. I read stories to my son each night.
Him, snuggled close—closer—by my side. He favors humor
and I applaud him for maintaining his. This silent suffering and buzzing
of bees are tiny finger-pricks in the blanket of night and marrow of morning.
The day’s sap spills into the next, and the night’s nectar is tainted now.
I’m a mammalian bat who flaps with fury into the prejudicial silence
as I check for breath during the artist’s hour. He sleeps. I’m flummoxed.
My wingspan is greater now, and he has red patent pokes ripe upon his flesh.
I count carbs in circles. And swoop down to deliver each dose of this substance,
this thing his body can no longer produce. Each meal is practical math.
Each snack a formula. I am now a scientist and he is my jewel, a brilliant pearl.
I wear stilettos. Black. And he blows me a kiss as he hops out of my car with his backpack.
School will numb his mind (and work mine) until the hour we return to being side-by-side
Today is Day 4 of WYA I’m a tad late to the party (I just found out about this wonderful opportunity yesterday) but I’m here now. So let’s write…
Love and Ink,