[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/AlvarezArms.mp3″]
Why on this march toward forty, my man
and I live in a house with more bedrooms
than bodies, I say I’m not ready, I say art
is reproduction, that I teach—so don’t I
already have so many children to love?
What I cannot say: I was twelve, the only
one home. My mother wept on the throne.
I begged her to let me call for an ambulance,
but she shook her head between sobs, would
not release my hand as our bathroom filled with
the copper of her blood. She held out a tissue
to me with something pink, only little larger than
my thumb: This was your brother. Oh god oh god oh—