El Pajarito Rubio
Counting thirteen cars in line
by color,
he is Queequeg thumbing
his book.
This deliberately certain regularity
of sequence,
pious patterns and codes only
he knows.
Why isn’t truly why, but more
like when.
When the mean children will meanly stare-
his eyeless soul,
like a little blonde bird flying sideways,
yet straight,
into its own space and purpose.
He is free.
This petite bird, a smallish funny man
who lives
not for his guilty mother, denying the
jack knife,
whittling some kind of idol for her
to worship.
Even I am obsessively organized
for most.
There’s nothing wrong with staring
into space…
Next week they will give my pajarito
Chloral Hydrate.
As he gags they will attach 167 electrodes
to his head.
We are also trying organic, gluten free
casein free
and something-else-free. I don’t
remember.
He laughs in colors, baila for his papi,
shapes singing,
while I sit on my counter, cross-legged
with Coldplay
trying to write a poem. His language,
bittersweet.
The tongues he sings and recites in,
memorizing
notes, yet communicating with us
syllabically.
These unearthly tattooings that will make
him genuine.
Or perhaps, the new normal, according to
my step-mom.
