We knocked Jake Brown
to the ground
in eighth grade, kept him there
with words, Get up, retard. A man
is born strong. I dare
you. A boy is meant to stand up.
But Jake wouldn’t. My son Brendan
can’t. Day after day. It hurts to see him
stuck. The report branded
him retarded, abnormal, impaired,
delayed. Waves of words. In water
I make him
new. Rub spasms
from his back. Come on, Brendan.
Help me. Flat on his belly, he hugs
the shower’s tiled ground. Please, son. Tries to pull
himself up. Slips. Ripples
the white curtain. He’s
safe. No blood
this time. Just clear streams
pearling. I keep
fit. Lift weights so I can lift
him. Kneeling, I raise him slow. Why can’t you
do this on your own? Soap-slick bird,
my six-year-old boy slips
through my hands. Can you
make things easier
just this once? I hold
tighter, won’t let
him slip
again. Jake’s eyes crossed behind bifocals,
he’d fumbled
my pinpoint pass, tripped
at the rim. My boy stays smaller
than other boys. Still it hurts
to lower myself
to him. I need
more strength. Old words foam inside
me, held back. Are you
an idiot? My son looks
away, water streaks
his face, washes
away tears, his mouth
bitter with Dove suds, words
that never roll off
his tongue. Sissy. Jake lost us
the game. You play
like a girl. Behind the veil
our shadows. In steam I tell myself
words will dissolve, droplets
soothing my mouth, running down my chest
onto Brendan’s back.
Four years ago, I told the doctor,
my voice measured, Be careful
with those words. The shower stream grows
cold, I am naked
and shivering. In the drain’s dark well
our echoes. I want to believe
in him. It was just
a report. Jake’s bifocals cracked,
he pissed
his Toughskins. Moron. More than
a word. Sprawled like Jake
on pavement, my son spreads out
his arms, little wings
spanning the damp
expanse. My feet sank
into wet grass. Jake ran from us,
sandy hair whipping
his freckles. Sorry, Daddy
didn’t mean it.
Because he’s my boy,
it’s my fault. I need new
words. Waking bird. Fierce
starling. My hands pat him dry, smooth
his hair. It shines
like feathers. One skinny leg
kicks out.
His hands search
the wall,
push me away
to lift off alone,
stand up to me
just this once.
from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library
Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.