The Vines

An Albatross perched on the windowsill. Our special day.

Its slain wings shadowed the Morning Star, gliding on, imposing itself

On the plastic-blue sky as you said hello. I requested Chopin.

Yet before I held you, your wailing cries became my favorite symphony.

Medical terms: cutting, clamping, bleeding, drying, wrapping, clearing of airways—

Oh sweet midwife—give me my baby!

His cotton hat, his first latch, his wrinkled skin—my crumpled little love letter.

Cry. Take your place amongst the atoms and the antimatter. 

His name will be Benjamin.

We sought shelter, together, in the caverns of the future with only

Fits and flashlights to guide us. In three fortnights, a smile—in six mimicking faces—

I’d never before seen joy exposed from the eyes of man—not even traces.

I loved every moment—Peekaboo—sleep deprivation.

Oh, the cruel potential of a rocking cradle and how it bludgeons rationality.

Does it ever feel sorry for what it’s made me see?

Oh, my little boy—Benjamin

My blackberry jam.

On which vines of mine did you grow?

For you were simply too sweet.

He got his good looks from his father.

For that, frozen soul still, he could stab me a thousand times and I’d apologize for bleeding

A mess. It was magical, motherhood. Magical motherhood.

Watching Benny—so beautiful yet not so beautiful as to overwhelm the eyes of strangers—

A beauty supreme. Yet peculiar on playgrounds. Content with simple regimentation’s and

Sky gazing. Who is the child who does not cry with abandon? I never believed that mother.

It was a commercial; your yellow coat striking in the slow, steady rain.

A hesitant tyke trying not to show it, cute, eddying, a windswept seed whisked from its

Cradle of green—it’s sheltering bough of me and onto the school bus.

But the lens lost focus; fogged over gently, slowly dulled until it went blind.

Your yellow—once a sunlit canary way—turned to clay, to mud, then to scattered black on

The carpet. I asked you calmly. Directly, then in riddles—to radio silence.

Your eyes were on a desert island—your pupils void of honey. Mrs. B called me—

You stole the field trip money. Was I a bad mother? Searching my son for a soul and finding

Only stone? To wake with you daily and selfishly delay destiny.

Oh, my budding boy—Benjamin

My blackberry jam.

What roots of mine fed you wrong?

For your eyes were simply too blue.

You taught me what lies are for.

I should have smothered you—and that thought suffocates me.

But daisies distracted me; ballparks and backstops—you found a spark in baseball.

One home run two, I thought the cracks of your bat would change the course of History.

You’d round the bases as if bound for Gethsemane, to dogpiles—smiles, the sweet stink

And dirt kissed innocence rubbing off on you—bellicose yet tender. The Hamiltons invited

You to their beach house. It’s when I packed your bag that I found the notebook. Intentions

Fleshed out and still I choked. Boys Stand By Me and play; I say—it wasn’t that deep.

But the blade Benny steered into that boy’s wrist was so indeed.

“It was him!” they all said, the blood line bully who tied his teammate to a tree singing Polly

Wants a Cracker. All I loved, the false promise of the rocking cradle, at once laid bare at my

Kitten feet. But I could not report regret. 

Oh, my fucked-up boy—Benjamin

My blackberry stain.

From what part of me did your sweetness turn sour?

I often dream it was all a dream—that none of you were true.

Was I just the same as my hard-bitten boy? To admit his brutality helped me.

For I found quickly in life what to disregard in my survey of death’s abyss. I bought Jackie O

Spectacles and welcomed life’s eclipse. To see through them and feel utterly empty.

“I’m not here,” I repeated to myself on walks—singing: “This isn’t happening.” Awash.

Benny was at reform school. Daddys looks and a suit saved him from brick and barbwire.

“3 years at Delrose Reform.” The gavel unshackled me. And the plane took off.

Maybe he’ll grow wings in a place where nothing blooms.

He despised writing—and yet sometimes did—his pen was his pendulum. Overly

Sentimental, then sinister and scatterbrained—page after page, his only constant was pain.

Oh, my wayward boy—Benjamin

My Blackberry fungus

What soil of mine bore this bruise?

I see none of me in your poorly-written clips—save for penmanship.

One day—the sun lifted its head, despite my shades—I felt color return to my cheeks.

Forbearing and free—a beautiful kind of blue—I settled in Seneca—and the Solar System

Too. I started to break his seals without a flicker in me. Torn—automatic and unfeeling—like

Old wallpaper in his vacant bedroom. I turned the pages like I turned the garden soil—

Cold and bare and necessary. His wailing cries no longer made music.

After his 10th letter—I couldn’t help it—the prophecy, my judgement biblically complete.

I stayed up—moon-drunk—wrote to Benjamin. His reply came swiftly.

It even made me laugh. Two weeks later I had a window seat.

Delrose Reform was in Missouri.

My anxiety and the plane ascended in harmony.

Out the oval window, the wing of the plane, I thought of the Albatross and the slain shadow

Of the Morning Star. I felt like a sinking stone—going home—feeling a feeling I’ve always

Known. The awe of him lingered—the shame of him remained. He really did it, didn’t he?

Touched down, turbulence-free—greeted by violent vibrations when service

Returned to me. For the crimson-soaked phone—was forever and always—etched in stone.

Oh, my bloodthirsty boy—Benjamin.

My Blackberry—maybe too ripe to last—isn’t it nice to think so?

On which vines of mine did you catch this spell?

The truth is I too have it—for it was my deafening silence that raised all Hell.