Hurricane
by Julia Kolchinsky DasbachOne hand cinched
around my throat,
my son reaches
his pointer finger
through my trachea,
morning breath
sucked clean.
I cough & cough—
how much of me
he takes, how hard
his squeeze & puncture?
Not strong
enough to open
a gallon of milk,
but enough hard
to hurt. Unacceptable, I say
and he asks about pain,
already certain of it
& old enough
to mean it as much
as rain means
to flood.
His touch
unasked for
gift. Consent
a thing I teach & teach
but cannot show.
Torrential rain another name
for us both trying
to come up for air.
He brushes
my neck with fingertips,
You can’t touch
anyone this way, I say,
& he keeps stroking,
gentle, insistent, letting
fingers fall like water
into the dip where skin
is thinnest, where
he can feel
air fill & lift the body.
Hours later, I still
don’t know
how to reclaim
this air as mine.
We have a tea party
of black & herbal, double
bergamot & lemon
ginger, acid & dried
flowers tear
my throat. My neck
the gill of every fish
who’s known
a hook. Each swallow,
a tinge, a barb
a child’s bone lodged
inside my windpipe.
Hurricane, I call him,
feist & furry, but
love, you have
always been
uncontainable wind.
