My body has been shaped and reshaped
like clay, I am an ancient sculpture whose structure
is proof that magic is real, that God is real.
I wake up every night, hour after hour, before the light
to watch his tiny chest rise and fall like the sun,
to hold him close to my breast to soothe the beast within,
to cradle him back into a slumber where he floats on a cloud.
I am some kind of acrobat who has mastered balance
while sleeping on the edge of my bed,
while standing on the edge of my patience,
while teetering on the edge of my mental.
My body has shifted and re-shifted
so that Life had room to bloom and pray
that I would meet him at the end of the tunnel—
I am here, My Love, ready to catch you in my arms
when you emerge into yourself,
when you dive into the ground and scrape your knee,
when your heart quakes with fear from the rumble of thunder.
I am still here to carry your head when heavy with emotions
and to sew shut your deepest wounds
even when you fix your lips to utter words like,
“…but Daddy does it like this.”
My oldest son is four years old.
He looks at me and says, “You a bad b$%!h, Mamí!”
I could have reprimanded him,
I could have, as they say, slapped the Black off of him,
I could have pushed those words back down from where they came
but today, Mamí is oh so tired
of reshaping and re-shifting her whole world.
I am still learning how to pick my battles with him
because every fight is not worth winning.
So I look down at his well-meaning face,
half-smile and shrug, “Where is the lie, My Love?”