Poetry

The Week of Your Diagnosis

Here you are jumping on the bed,
Nearly dusk and it’s summer
You suddenly find the remaining words
To that nursery rhyme we’ve practiced endlessly:
You fell off, and bumped your head.
I laugh, doubting all suspicions that something could be wrong with this child,
My child.

To the tune of your jumbled consonants and vowels, I desperately try to soften.
The monkeys of my mind
begin jumping furiously now.
And I pause here hopefully,
Thinking that if they must pour out
then let it be on this bed,
No matter what the doctor said.

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