that I will never be the man my mother
always said I could be,
said I would be. I wish I’d told her
that her son was born with an intense desire
to be anything other than ordinary
coursing through his veins. They were small, but held
passion for things she’d never understand.
I am strong like her, but I failed to try-
also like her.
Her little boy was gone before she knew it,
like rain on warm pavement-
disappearing through the cracks
before her very eyes. I remember how they glowed;
jade and amber swirled around
the darkest pupil. She said my father loved her most
for them, but what did he know about the woman
who raised the sun he’d never
I wish I’d told her that I was born
to be the fire in the sky
reminding her that she did something right.