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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Parenting · #1862755
Loss births guilt; a twisted version of the tale of Jonah and the whale.
When the principal himself at the residential school for autism
where you bathe live learn eat play please God are loved
calls my cell, I happen to be away from it. He speaks in an even tone.
I am upstairs pouring coffee comfort ritual routine into a blue mug.

A pretty co-worker comes into the kitchen, skirts me silently,
retrieves something from the fridge, and walks away. Invisibility.

My mother has just dropped me off in beginning-of-the-rain grey
after together we'd ushered my suffering sweet Sugarpuss into Sleep.

I return to my cubicle, place the coffee down I am holding my breath
and on the cell phone a red light blinking blinking his area code

I dial into the voice mail it takes me two times, I hear Jonah is okay,
I hear significant incident hear how they tried to redirect him, keep him walking.
He was violently aggressive he needed a two-person takedown;
he likely hurt someone. More than one someone. Surfacing to bite.

Born of me who hated hitting, shrank from violence, submitted every time.
Weak and yet I grew a wild white whale inside my womb, Ahab be warned.

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