There was the summer you ignored me so hard
it gave me bad posture. By fall, the chiropractor
prescribed a back brace and a name tag to wear
around the house.
Every Christmas Eve, instead of throwing me
a birthday party, you'd soak me in the bathtub,
fully-clothed, and hang misletoe above the light sockets.
I was never included in family portraits-
you said I had a face only a mother could leave.
I remember standing in your hallway every other weekend,
gazing at you and my stepbrother, wearing the framed smiles
I knew I would inherit.
I became your biggest fan, chasing your car home
from the grocery store, standing outside your bedroom
for an autograph or a handshake, explaining,
Ma, I've seen ever one of your home movies!
"Weekend Trip to the Zoo," "Mother Son Picnic in Yosemite"
and I know every one of your mood swings by heart.
When you'd drop me off at home, I'd brag to Dad
and his girlfriend about my brush with fame. They'd smile
and nod, then shake the wild imagination right out of me.
Pretty soon the weekend visits faded into a nineteen-year
carnival line where I waited for you until the sights and sounds
of families and laughter made my stomach plunge.
That's the year I lost my appetite then found it
in men disguised as getaway cars. Sometimes a tingling sensation
sweeps across my face like an amputee's phantom itch,
and I realize how much I miss the back of your hand.
I know, I never apologized for steering you
into that marital car crash, but how was I to know
they'd pry your legs apart, drag me from the wreckage,
my first cries shattering that rear view mirror of a heart?
You could have told them. You could've explained-
I was just some filthy hitchhiker you never meant to pick up.
A greedy little fetus. An accident waiting to happen.
Labels: Rachel McKibbens