How gentle my mother must feel as
she looks at the strings of my clothing and
the hair on my fingers. She must think,
I made this.
And how everything has changed since those
summer nights when I dreamed of buffalo
chasing me, and my father hid bubblegum
in the bathroom closet and said,
Don't eat these at night, or you'll choke.
But all along I've only wanted
to swallow what is sweet, to
watch my tongue change
Now I am a man.
Whatever that is.
And I still feel like brown sugar
in my coffee is not enough
to erase the fear.
And I think that every howl that
we murmur in our sleep, our mothers
must feel, like the tight fastening
of a belt, or the uncomfortable sound
of a chair as it dances on the floor.