After a looooong day, this one was a bit of a cheat. I’d started this poem some time ago, but finished it today. So that counts, right?
BEAR THE WEIGHT
Pain is weight. Anger is weight. It sinks us daily
sometimes, and I claw for air.
There may only be moments of breath
before he spirals down again.
As a mother, I bear the weight.
First the pediatrician, then the psychologist.
There are theories, medications, occupational therapy
for a beautiful boy with brown eyes and invisible anchors
tied to his body. He’s too young, they say,
for a solid diagnosis. We wouldn’t want a label
pulling him down.
As a mother, I bear the weight.
I put my arm around his shoulder.
He rests his head against me and we sink
into the couch together. He smells like
feet and the Oreos that he ate after dinner
that still linger at the corners of his mouth.
In the recesses of his mind, the one
that wrings him limp from one moment
to the next, that I have to remind myself
is in more control of this than either of us,
I pray he knows
with my tired body
and my dented heart
I will bear the weight.
Issa M. Lewis 