My Phoenix
by Sally Haldorson
Before he was born, each moment
simmered down so simply to:
happy, sad.
Now I am neither. Never
one nor the other.
Now a smothering haze has
Settled, an eclipse descended,
his sweet white light cloaked,
and I rummage, blind,
through piles of emotions, sinkholes
of scraps, notes on a broken heart,
searching for the up-
side of this sad, unfair scenario.
The world turned grey. No
bright colors any more for us,
lives whittled down.
Unmet expectations shaved off in wormlike
curls. Lost dreams drop
off behind us like so much
debris in ditches.
Now my back bends.
My belly scrapes the ground.
I am loaded like
a beast of burden.
And I am tired
of sorting feelings
into orderly bins:
hope love disappointment.
One day, long
after he should, he points
To an apple, red and round
on a white page.
There, oh there.
Like a mouse burrowing
beneath fall leaves, like a faint voice
whispering from beneath rubble, hope stirs.
And like a pale green sprout, slow
in its uncoiling, Noah unfolds.
And suddenly I believe…
Some day he will learn
his letters, his numbers, his name.
And with new-colt legs, he will
run with friends, run from me.
From my arms that have carried
him too long.
He will run,
And I will be the first mother
To cheer, to say:
Go, my son, grow up too fast.
Like they all said you would.
Please do. Go. Go. Go.
