I dangled stubby legs off the edge of the white hospital bed
dug fat fingers angrily into the bleached sheets-
If you hurt mommy to crawl out of her
So eager to explore fluorescence
Why wouldn’t you open your eyes?
I wanted you to walk months before you did.
February, and your head thumped against the marble of our kitchen floor
Tiny domed feet couldn’t support
The weight of the body I set on them
And you cried until Mom yelled at me-
Even at 7 months you understood revenge.
I once wrote poetry about you stealing my mom from the inside out
You took her black hair,
Her size 8 pants,
And her heart.
13 years later your eyes are almost always open
The light beneath your door is on
For my midnight snacks and morning runs
And I just wish you opened that door
To hug mother
A little more often.