I’m so ready to feel something again—
the ridges and slide of a plastic turtle shell comb,
the curled cords of my son’s hair
a touch which he tolerates
for my sake, for the sake of the way
I plunge mottled hands into raw meat
and chicken guts to shape a meal. Small
thanks for the way he tolerates my chapped lips
kissing his diffident forehead,
his reluctant cheek.
Time to inhale the chloroformed rag
of regret against my face. The water
outside this house is too cold
for swimming he says, so why are you still here?
I’m babying the ache in my hip
where my son used to perch, still feeling
the feral clutch of his embrace, his hair a bird’s nest.
Those Do Not Touch signs are meant for me
but these hands reach out anyway, toward the earbuds
and hoodie, his tattooed turtle shell, hungry.
–
Sarah Stockton is the EIC of River Mouth Review. Her chapbooks include Time’s Apprentice (dancing girl press, 2021) and Castaway (Glass Lyre Press, 2022). Sarah lives by the Salish Sea in the Pacific Northwest.