After Robert Hayden
Awake I’d hear her uneven steps on linoleum
the limp a gift from polio during the Great Depression.
Then the clink of bowls and spoons, the fridge door
that swung open and closed like judgment. Girls were
girls and boys were boys and I was expected in the kitchen
to pour milk, juice if we had it – to clear and rinse dishes.
I prayed to be a boy, to play hard ball, football, to cuss
without a back-handed slap, to kiss girls, touch them.
When I came to the kitchen, I did what needed doing,
asked if there was anything else. I don’t think so, she said.
What did I know of challenges, of weight, mass,
momentum? What did I know of difference –
of the strange and fluent urges of any body in motion.
