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I'm coming down with something;
tis the season.

there's a small stain on my kid's t-shirt,
a spot of blood that escaped the paper napkin
in the dentist's chair. they sedate him,
because he fights --
the fleshwounds of childhood seem
to him
wholly unnecessary.
at six,
knows his choice is taken from him
against his will.

"Your dental tools destroyed my mightiness,"
he cries, accusing,
to his kind-eyed doctor.
"This was NOT a good idea,"
sobbing angrily.

My bones ache. My tongue hurts,
where I bit into the flesh
struggling to pull him from the cab.
The dark tear and its pain
seem to have spread,
to my elbows, wrists,
my heart.

This is the betrayal of parenthood:
the pain you cause from duty.
And sifting through your words to your child
at the end of the day,
looking for any harm inflicted
in your negligence.

I prayed that any pain in him would
come to me instead.
Prayed for any fever, any throb or
fear. Begged God to spare him
from the common cold.

But my actions still endanger him.

I am flesh too, and weak
and angry at the God who still
keeps mum
on certain subjects.

Half-asleep on my arm,
my boy, my only child --
give me all your pain, and yet
with love,
there's always more to come.