I dream of my son:
tiny, all flesh & fat,
cuddles & mushy
little hands. I imagine him
small. Dependent on my
milk, he’s untouchable,
shielded by bosom
& back. My caution &
luck – acquired & made.
If I keep him
small, not twelve
playing in a park—
Star Wars, light sabers
ablaze, his skin sweaty
& brown, I can keep him
safe. Before the gaze. Before
his name turns #hashtag.
Did Tamir’s mother
remember him small?
Tucked at her breast?
Curled in bed, hidden
in that universe of two
where she & he are
the whole world & no one
ever has to ask whether
Black Lives Matter?
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining!