“there’s a cosmic storm whenever he’s in my orbit

five races at war outside time, trapped

in one spindly high-toned body, knobby elbows and knees

the rigorously loving teachings of mom and dad take

root despite media engineering and peer pressures.

the snippy cuttings, mouthy snipings, and cheeky wit

that will soon attend his adolescent defenses have yet

to materialize. right now he knows not to prevaricate

and so, that fall morning when i call him

to me for an ancestral chat, to take him into my lap

he hesitates.

don’t be afraid, i say. he takes a few eager skips

that turn into squirms when i grab him and hold him tight

situated in my softness, he relaxes some

but stares at my hands in consternation

this is what happens, i think, when the eyes go against the heart

You’re all mixed up, aren’t you?

Yes.

Your mother belongs to me. What’s my name?

What do you call me?

Grandma.

You don’t want to like me,

do you?

Yes.

Because I’m brown.

He’s silent.

Is it because I’m brown?

Yes.

Well, that’s okay. I’m going

to be brown forever. Is it

okay if I like you?

Yes.

then I hug him and let go, wondering

if that’s enough to set him free.”