April Mayez October

The few.

I’m trauma dumping with my neighbor bunkie. She was on the top bunk on the other side of the partition for six weeks. I’d let her hang dry her whites over onto my side. She had an undercover coffee hustle. Ten dollars a teaspoon. April. She could hear me get to know my cubicle. My bottom bunkie and African American woman with a doctorate’s degree in international business and a Nigerian husband. No you never did. April eventually asks me about kids. She’s done 15 years, was out for one and then she was back again for 8-15 more. I start with one. Pull up my sleeve to show her the mark that made sense to why I could never breast feed. Biologically. Endocrinology. I could explain it, but when I tell you I’m my own doctor and have no questions, it’s the end of the conversation. The scar I was looking for, wasn’t there. Like I must’ve dropped it, the zipper was open. How I didn’t fall to my knees and cry. A few tears, here and there in the quiet of the night. A raspy juvenile voice from no such mouth, “I love you mom.” I stay up all night and write until I’m almost out of ink. A few days later I rip it to pieces and toss it out. My mind a little closer to the truth now. She gets back from her morning shift. I let her shower, eat and unwind before I tell her what I want to do, just as soon as I get out. I ask her to add me to her tablet every day until she does. I know you’re here. I know you pick up. On her foot was bright blue. A cookie and a monster. No idea why she is or why she was. Trust is also biological. Statistical too. I write poems I keep. Day dreams about the names. Knowing when comes the day, your heart beat would echo it true. A different shade, a new hue of blue.