Mommy is my best friend.
She plays with my brown
curls and prays with me. She reads stories
about little men feeling lonely
and tells me to never bully because
everyone is special. Her hands
are soft like air. Her breath cold like
water in winter. She loves to sing
Christmas songs and always mentions how
granny sang along. Her eyes are blue like
the Pacific Ocean. Mommy used that word
in a haiku once. It went like this:
Pacific ocean
undiscovered water
see how its life sings
Mommy is a scientist. She is an o-cean-o-gra-pher.
I like to write haikus about her swimming in the ocean.
Mommy tells me to be careful though or
else I'll drown. When she is not teaching
about the ocean, she likes to watch me sleep.
She tells me you're a paralysis patient.
She injects me with green liquid, and when I open my eyes
her eyes turn brown. Grandma stands in the corner
and hums a lullaby. Mommy says everything will be ok. It is just
a dream. I tell mommy to stay but she always
fades. Then comes the angry man. He strips my blanket
and tells me to play with his toy. Grandma hums louder
while the blankets rustle and the serum fizzles. He leaves like
he came. Grandma faces the wall and my eyes turn black. Mommy wakes
me from my bad dream and holds me. She says it'll be alright.
But, my fingers can touch the pain. Mommy begins our new lesson
and I watch the tick-tock go by. 6 o'clock rings and mommy injects me.
Results must be accurate. I try to close
my eyes and dream it away. Grandma smiles while pain sings.
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