First I have you,
like a good idea or nightmare,
clinging, clinging till I find a way
to falsify—like I could have
something of my own without—
You turn one today.
Younger than breathing, the act
or the stopping of, but older than
the marigolds in our kitchen window.
Theories like you are impossible
to squash.
I try every day, when the light hits
just right and your little arms reach out
for a name—no name
that comforts me—and I choke you
till you are older, finally,
than breathing.
Then I have another one
just like you, or maybe
nothing like you–
I don’t ever absorb the details.
I do it again, infanticide at twilight
and labor at dawn. This is a parent’s job,
to hold the murder weapon
so no one else does.
gray lindsey is a poet from Florida. They are pursuing an MSW at the University of Chicago, where they hope to work towards decarceration for marginalized populations. Their writing’s themes cycle between spirituality, psychedelia, queerness, and working class politics. Some of their work can be found in TEA Literary Magazine, Bacopa Review, and Unfurl, Tender Bodies. When they’re not writing, you can find them learning a new art form or petting a neighborhood cat.
