IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES
by Michelle Awad


I burst

forth,

slimy,

sticky,

slippery, 

red,

I never stopped

being red, actually,

crying,

always crying,

maybe that’s why

I try not to

lately, 
they gave me

to my mother,

and she laughed,

what the hell

am I gonna

do with you, 

my father

was in the room,

or maybe he wasn’t,

probably
he wasn’t,

the second thing

I knew

after the warmth of 
the womb

was the coldness of
space. My father,

the Great Collector, 
of bar stools,
and gasoline

receipts, of

more women’s children

than he knew

what to do with; 


I thank
whatever God

there is

for my mother,

lying there,

slimy,

sticky,

slippery,

red,
because of me,
not unafraid,
but brave,
they gave me 
to her,
and she laughed,

what the hell

am I gonna

do with you,

she said, and she never

got an answer

any more

than he did.

She loved me anyway.