by Chris Abani
As I grow older I want to hold my mother.
Hold her to my chest and soothe her.
Cradle her head that is small, thin as a sparrow’s,
and say, He loved you, he did.
All those years, they count for something.
And the only lie would be the not knowing.
And I am a man, too.
And like my father, bad, bad, bad.
Copyright 2010 Chris Abani
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.