After an empty day, this

By James Camacho

 

I notice you, aching in diabetic throes, your clothes: long pistachio-faded

robe, outworn dress underneath. A star trek episode about an empath

deaf mute, strange engaging alienated woman. She puts hands on hurt

bodies, she hurts like they hurt, she's gifted. For a day I emulate her,

grafting grandson hands onto frozen, bulbous-veined feet resembling

clay gone bad. You tell me mother hurts too. Unable to envision a day

without emptiness, I grab three bananas, two cans of bumblebee, goya

beans as mother's plight haunts the peripheries. Can I mouth son words

to the one who without hesitation estranged herself?.... I must call her.

"What's wrong?" Stomach hurts so you go to a hospital where a

specialist in colon excavations at 8am awaits. I never heard you sound

so afraid. It fucks with my head. Both bodies need breathing, less weight,

good eating. "Will you have to spend the night?"

 

I hold tight to these twenty-seven year old bones.