Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Tow Head

Image borrowed from Bing

Tow Head

After school, you fly home, a child stretching restless
legs again, except you’re the teacher, now, red pen to
rewrite the world, except, it’s boring, somnambulant
students wasting your time, except, when you stomp up
the stairs, you discover your legs tight and aching after a
day of pacing out miles in a 30×30 cage. Your wife is in
the kitchen, sleeping loll-headed baby strapped to her chest.
This is something you can’t put words to, only fix in your
eyes and tuck away some place to consider when you have
more time. Some things are just for looking at, not
understanding. You eat, chat, send the wife to bed after two
days with maybe six hours sleep, sit, baby on your chest,
now, feel your legs stiffen and contract, lock and burn.
Bear it. She is empty of all but the need to be filled. It
aches in her,  forces strangled sobs. You try to put her
down so you can work, but the absence of your warmth,
your heartbeat, your rhythmic breath jar her in a start.
Cup her head and sway while, upstairs, your wife snores
softly. This is the true work. You’ve got hours to sit with
her, legs cramping, head drooping. Pat the air from
her stomach; like so many things she’ll face,
it takes up room, but doesn’t nourish.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Pressboard Press

No comments: