Magpie

When C gets upset. He cries

And says go. Or how when.

I don’t go. Sometimes. How

Sometimes. He lunges at me.

His hands flying like the wings

Of a swooping magpie I say.

To my mother. Later. When

I try to explain it. How it is.

Because his hands are his

Words. Fingers and wrists

Like syllables. Or how it is

Like he is guarding the nest

Of it. A feeling that is there.

Inside of him. Inside all of us.

But that he has no way. Has

No way of telling me about. Or

How my mother asks me what.

She asks me what does C do.

When he says go. And I go.

And I say he lays there or how

He is upset until. Until he isn’t

I say. And my mother tells me

That it is normal. How children

Get upset. And I say yes or how

Maybe. That maybe he will be

Stronger because of this. The

Doing it alone. Because he has

So little. So little words he can

Say. And I say words like self or

Soothe. Words that do not help.

Because they are not his.

Or because I am his mother and

When it happens again.

I do not go. Even when

He tells me to. When he says go.

I stand still.

A few feet away. Watch him cry.

Whisper I am right here. Or how

I inch my body across the room

And when he throws his magpie

Hands towards my face. Chest.

I say okay. How it is okay. Until

I am next to him. Sitting next to

Him. Our arms touching length

Wise. And I wait. Our arms like

That. Touching and how he is

Suddenly throwing his body

Across my body and he is.

Positioned diagonally or like

A shield. Which is opposite

I think. Than it should be and

With his face pushed up. Up

Against my face.

Against my neck.

Or how his mouth is positioned

Near the part. Part of my throat

Where the box is. Where. Where.

My words become sound. The

Sound of this. The two words

I am saying now. How I am saying

I know and I know

Even though I don’t. Don’t know.

Because this is what it is.

To mother a child

Who cannot say or tell me more.

How I know. And how I do not know.

All at once. Or how. When it is

Night and I lay in the darkness.

My body growing hot from fear

Of what will happen and to him.

Growing hotter like this Earth.

And I am thinking about a city

In Iran. The one with the name

Safi Abad Dezful. Where the

Humidity dropped to almost zero.

How it was 0.36 percent and how.

That is almost nothing. Nothing.

And they say that if you cry there.

If you cry in the city in Iran called

Safi Abad Dezful. Your tears will

Dry before they reach your lips.

Spindalis

I spread the pieces out.

Out on our kitchen counter.

How I am trying to put all of it

Back together.

A letter that came in the mail

Today. Which my husband

Ripped up. Torn edges like

Scars. Because it is about C.

How she says that. She has

A child. My child with a disability

She says in the letter. How she is

Saying you are doing it all wrong.

And it has been over a month.

Over a month since the people

Of Puerto Rico said please and

Help us. Over a month since

Maria made landfall. Or how

Almost all of the people

In Puerto Rico still do not have

Power.

Or their homes are gone.

Flattened and gone. Or

Still there. But with no roofs. How

There are houses with roofs that

Are peeled off like skin. And the

People are starving. The people

In Puerto Rico are starving and

They have no clean water

To drink. Because not enough

Clean water has come.

And they are drinking from rivers.

How the river water curls around

Raw sewage. How the people are

Drinking water from a well in Dorado

That is sunk into a hazardous waste

Site. Or how

The flood water is laced with lead

From batteries and coal ash. And

There are metals in the mountains.

Mountains of coal ash. And the ash

And the metals are floating in the

Flood water.

Leaching into the ground. Moving

With mud.

How the leaves in Puerto Rico are

All gone. And nothing. Nothing is

Green anymore.

Because bare trees lean up against

The shells of houses. Trees

Like bones. And this. This

Can feel like that.

Like we are a small island.

Our family. How even though we are

Good at this. And we don’t need help.

We also don’t need this.

A letter. From someone we do not know.

Not really. Saying things like not that way

Or why would you do it that way and I go

Outside. Stand on our deck and look down.

Where my husband is in the garden with C.

How they have small shovels and they are

Digging holes. Getting the ground ready to

Plant more plants. And C is smiling up. Into

The sun. And at me. And my husband has

His hand cupped just above his eyes. And

He is squinting. Saying see. 

Because everything here is

Growing.

And I go down the stairs.

Lay in the grass.

And the blades of grass are tufts.

Like feathers against my skin.

The skin on my neck and arms.

How I am listening to birds call.

And I pretend they are all spindalis.

The bird of Puerto Rico. Reina Mora.

Because they sometimes form small

Flocks. A community of birds. And

When a boa comes. Near a nest.

All of the birds swoop

Down. And fly at the boa. Torpedo

Their bird bodies down at it and

How they call it mobbing. When

The birds chase away a predator

Together. To protect their nests

And eggs and young.

And I stand up. In this backyard.

I am running over to C and

I pick him up in my arms.

Swing him around in a full

Circle. And put him down.

Put him down in the dirt.

This garden we made for him.

Press my face against his cheek.

And whisper it.

The word spindalis. Because

We are his flock. Our family

Of four. And I am whispering it.

Over and over and over again.

Whispering spindalis.

So it will nest inside of him.

Break open into a bird.

Part its wings. And start to

Fly.

Stones

We are in the backyard and

C is jumping over stones in

A gravel path that winds all

Around his legs like a river

Or how each time he jumps

His feet make landfall and

Stones spray up and out of

The path. And I am thinking

About the fullness of a river

When a storm hits. Or how.

Storms keep hitting. Hitting

Land and people. How Irma

Hit islands and now Florida.

And how Texas is still under

Water. Flooded

With water that is filled with

E-coli and sunken cars and

How no one knows.

No one knows. What is really

There. Until the water recedes.

And C is bending over. Picking

Up stones. Pointing

At me and saying yes.

And I hold my sweater out. Away

From my body. Gaping and wide

Like a stomach. Saying here. How

He should put them here.

And he picks up a handful of stones.

Drops them in. Spreading his fingers

Open and letting them go. Or going.

How he is going now. Running across

Grass and shouting. Shouting out the

Number eighteen.

Or later. How I find it.

My sweater in this dark kitchen.

A sack of stones on the counter.

And I am opening. Opening up my

Sweater and counting the stones.

Counting the stones one by one.

Lining them up on the window sill.

Or how I already know. Know how

Many there are. How C knew and

How he counted them. Like that.

In his head and quickly. Just by

Looking at them. And I walk down

The hallway. Into our bedroom and

Say to my husband he’s brilliant. Or

How no one knows. No one knows

How brilliant he is.

And my husband says yes.

And his yes is this ellipsis punctuating

The darkness. Or how every moment

Leads to another one. And I go and

Stand in the doorway and watch C

Sleep. And I know. I know his body

Is filled with sequencing numbers

And algebraic symbols.

The endlessness of a water cycle.

Bird calls and labeled bodies of

Flying butterflies.

Or how in the kitchen

There are eighteen stones

Lined up on the window sill

Like miniature sandbags.

Holding some of it back.

Holding some of it back

For now.