I’m fragile but not that Fragile

Sammi Bryan

December 17, 2020

for Graham

 

Bad baby, they said, broken
     and I knew we belonged,

our hearts of oiled ocean
     tethered to the same beach,

                                     motherless.
                                   And the dead.

It’s been miles since

                       and still, little pink,
                               you shed amber

                            glow in my palm,
                                   gurgle-chirp

                                    in your cradle
                       of nebulous honey.

Wards against
       this world’s narrowing

border between solitude
                    and indifference.

There are such omens:

      Impression of road.
      A lone and silent bridge.

Grass shrouds stones
     whereas mountain.

Overwhelms. Complicates
     our Skin Hunger and fear of.

                                 You cry, rattle
                                 my worn body

       of granular physics.

     And who isn’t scared, baby,
                         of who’s left, who

stayed, the rain?

     When this emptying
landscape swallows us in river.

     When My name’s Sam
is all I can say to soothe,

      selfish and whistling.

     When America as currency
is a sparse and loveless cupid.

     When I am its son.

     And you feel it too—
beneath such absurd weight,

weightlessness.

        As if we could forget
             for once, our finite,

        singular designs.
             But there is always

destination.

                       Some vacant city,
                          fluorescent walls

                         where I rest you
                           apart from me,

                       watch you dream
                  of becoming a man,

pretend that I am one
     worth forgiving.