Before You Go

CHELSEA DINGMAN

You should know, he may not be your son, but he made a mural of his body, where you aren’t the serpent, or the broken cross, but the mother of liars & drinkers & boys crucified to barn rafters after a night of revelry. He drags you with him the way a motherless boy drags himself away from train tracks, yellow weeds from your yard under his tongue. For you, the bellyscars from the surgeries are new. Before, the parts of you that were removed could be grown. But now, he masters the art of looking away. He doesn’t want to visit. You should know, this is true devotion. It takes a brave man to sit still, 3000 miles away from the only woman he’s wanted to call mama. To whom will he tell his secrets, the way his sons look at him like hungry pigeons? Your whole body has been changing, the drugs making you marsh & glen, rather than hardened ice fields. He forgets his face grows only grey hair now. That you remember the fiery-headed kid who lived on Kraft dinner & wieners & grilled cheese when you were the village. You should know, before you go

somewhere that will keep you long away, he can’t bear this slow dis- appearance. You called him a tower, once, but history has shown us even towers fall to fire. Look around your sterile room. Ignore the machines. White walls. Wilting arrangement of carnations. Pretend for a moment that he is strong enough to know the fragile rot in all things. The mural on his skin is now faded to grey after years of friction. On the phone, you used to say, call me next week, before hanging up. Now, you’re saying, sweet boy, I need you to be brave.