It wasn’t on purpose their mistaking the children
for pincushions. Not intentionally sadistic, just
so many of their own inner pricks to mind
and with all the bloodletting, it was safer
this way. They had caretaking to do! And like
dogs, we learned to come once taught the whistle
and smell of roast on the table, no matter sharp
edges, objects. At different points in their lives,
I caught my mother and younger brother talking
to themselves in the bathroom mirror. Same house,
different glass. Maybe they felt safer, seeing themselves
there. This was a long time ago. And communication
manifested in many forms. My father and I with
megaphones installed on the roofs of our brains
at birth. Our messages diverging—a dark woods—where
not all mirrors reflect alike. But any one of us can fall
apart. My older, most beloved brother, evaporated first.
Everyone could see he could talk to God for real.
Then one day God said remove all the pins.
And because his training was perfect, after that,
there was nothing left holding him together.

Michelle Bitting

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS