Sunday Chicken

The version of you

That toddled, big-eyed into

The kitchen while I was making

Crispy-skinned chicken,

(Your favorite)

would know better than even I

how much love

and care could be extracted from

preoccupied hands rubbing

cinnamon and garlic into

dry-patted meat. You

could trip and fall

On your hotwheel

And moments later,

becalmed by just the promise of my

touch and a hit of

fresh-baked cookie. Your

I love you mommys were

immense, with their own gravitational

pull- and anything that

caught your attention was the source

of full-throated joy

and encompassed

the entirety of your world for almost

twelve full minutes.

Now, just over a

decade since

I have learned from

your new,

hormone-drunk, half-sprouted

form

that my

time and

ideas

are tired and

not for you. When you

fall- it is no longer on

diecast cars but

deeply for a girl whose

name I’m not allowed to know

or the idea of being

friends with the cool

kids (the ones with rizz)

and your sugar

high is obtained from a facefull of

screen not

even three inches by

six. If I get to know

you love me, it’s only

in two tones now,

either out of joy for something

that feels embarrassingly like a bribe

for time with me or good

behavior, or

so monotone, weighted

down with displeasure from

familial obligation.

But I have drowned

in my own pubescent ocean, spit out

grown- sharp edges worn like

oval stones on the

Pacific beaches where we used to

camp. I remember how to

lose track of gravity,

to misjudge what is right versus

what is popular and to misdirect

anger-tipped poison darts

away from circumstance

and genes and toward

self.

Now I must watch

when life rubs against you

like sandpaper, knowing

that a hug

and a cookie

don’t bring joy and

relief anymore and knowing

that your biggest critic

and worst enemy

is trapped inside.

Sometimes the tiny

ball of

jubilation you

once were will

surface, mouth wide

gasping

to fill your lungs with

air in

the few seconds you have.

Then down you tumble,

into a maelstrom

of change- armored with

wood-paneled emotions and

verbal iron pauldrons.

Still, on Sundays,

I begin the morning brining

thighs and mixing

a spice rub in case

the dinner you once

needed might help you

find your way back

to yourself.