When We Go to the Butcher
When we go to the butcher,
I’ll hold your hand so hard
my memory will seep
through your pores
and you’ll be looking
down on your little eyes
and little nose
and two lips glued
tight into a cherub’s smile
and you will hear my heart
at your ear
and the way it says
“I’m sorry.”
When we go to the butcher
your father will be sitting
at my right and at my left,
an empty place where fear
resides, and if I could
be a something better.
we’d never be riding
in the first place.
When we go to the butcher
remember all those times,
but not just the good.
Remember me, a little
monster,
a fly off the handle,
hellish time of a girl
turned woman
turned something
turned and pickled
with fear’s empty space.
But when we go to the butcher
also know about my brave
little heart.
How courage is what lights
it a-thump.
And alights yours, too,
with my hopelessly
hopeful
prayers.