When I warn you my body is a grenade that’s ticking the seconds down
one heartbeat at a time, you dress yourself in a bulletproof vest
and fold your arms around me anyway.
You learned to deal with disaster zones after your father
strung a noose up over the pecan tree in the backyard
and kicked the chair out from under himself
when you were only three.
Sometimes I want to raid the medicine cabinet and swallow
every pill I can get my hands on, but somehow you always
manage to find me anyway and feed me one raisin
for every pill I want to pop,
until the box is empty.
When I feel like an earthquake you hold my bony shoulders
firm in your hands until the aftershocks stop coming,
then tuck me into bed after righting all the pictures on the wall.
About once a month you worry that you will turn into your father,
so I find all the ropes in your house and tie them together
into a chain, then show them to you and say,
See? This is how much I love you.
At night I say your name like a prayer in the dark while kneeling
over the altar of your folded body.
And sometimes I feel like walking into the river after weighting
my pockets with stones like Virginia Woolf, but you always
make sure to pack an extra life preserver.
I know we’re both hurt and we’re both bruised; we both
feel like burning buildings without a fire escape,
but sometimes I wonder if the only reason you always
try to save me is because
you couldn’t save your father.