My parents and I lay on our backs
rubbing our distended tummies,
pre-diabetic and post-pacemaker chests
sighing and whispering "****" under our breath.
Thank God for television,
without it we would have abandoned each other years ago.
We'd have nothing left to talk about.

I sit up and rub my left arm to get the numbness out.
I do so casually, so as not to make a scene.
I should ask dad for the blood pressure machine,
but it'd lead to an argument over my health
and it's only just an anxiety attack
and I can't bear to hear any more yelling.

I force my mind to a calmer place:
the parking lot last Saturday, when we sat in the sun and I made shadow shapes over the black top with my hands.
I like doing things that draw attention to my fingers; they are the only part of me still thin.

"Look," I said, "I made a four-legged creature!"
"Yeah," you laughed, "if the creature were dying of rabies."

Just then a jet flew overhead, airshow bound.
"Look," I pointed, excited but in vain, trying to breathe life into you, "It's like our own free performance!"
"Cool," you said with a half-smile.

Your eyes gave it away; you didn't give a ****.
It made me feel childlike.
This is one of my sweetest memories of you.

I snap back to the present, rub my left arm.
The ***** creeps it's way into my throat and I swallow it back down. At least the anxiety has subsided, it gave up on me and handed itself over to sadness. Easier to deal with. I guess I'll try to sleep.

When you looked at me with
an earnest grin and said,
"I am adult Adult,"
my heart swelled with love
and pity.

You cracked another one open
and poured it out with grace.
I looked the other way
and prayed you'd find
the elixir of youth this time.
You search for it daily
in your endless supply
of sixteen ounce cans.

I wish I could revive your dead father,
but I am not the sorceress you said I am.
I have a guilty face, as do
the boys who sneak into your room
on holiday nights.

I point to the sky
and ask you to look at the early moon.
You call it another shade of blue
and ridicule the sky's nothingness.

Beneath your six foot eight frame
I spy a boy standing on a stool
in a suburban front yard
while his father whips him from behind
for the neighborhood kids to delight in
that proud display of punishment.

I hope there were oak leaves rustling above your head, drowning out the laughter.
I hope there was a strong wind blowing hair back onto their faces, covering their grins.
I understand that noises make homes in our brains forever,
may some beautiful sound find you and provide you new shelter as
I try to forgive the way you introduced me to pain.
I laid on the floor and you kicked it into my stomach.

You couldn't have known
that when you winced at my shape and
declared me unloveable,
you were declaring me a patroness saint
of boys trapped inside of men.
Boys on stools in bars,
boys who fall asleep underneath plastic stars with books on their chests,
dreaming of being better
and never following through.

I walk around with my heart
suspended outside of my body
like the deep sea anglerfish and its light.
It hovers in front of my chest
waiting to be noticed by another,
expecting to go unseen by all.

I stare at the 7-11 clerk
under the fluorescent glow,
the harsh brightness exposes the ugliness around us and yet his face is beautiful.
I want to ask if he can see
the muscle floating mid-air in front of me,
does he see how dull its beat has become,
and Has his heart ever left his body?
If so, how did he put it back into place?
He does not look at me.
I leave with my heart trailing behind
reluctantly,
a stray wanting to be fed
and then left alone.

Later that night I lie in bed and sob ritualistically
until my eyes are swollen orbs,
until I breathe in shallow
gasping crying breaths.
I lift my arms and grasp
at the darkness of the room,
as though I am reaching to retrieve
my runaway heart,
But of what use could it be,
once it's back in my chest?
I've a mind full of anger and
God abandoned my heart
long before it abandoned my body.