Ride Along
Before you were born, before I carried your
boy body suspended in the loam-scented
liquid, my swelled belly serving as your home,
before I consented to your father’s wish
to be your father, before I abandoned
my oft-stated desire to be a mother
to no one (or if to someone then to dogs),
before I embarked on my own journey
to become the person I wasn’t, just yet,
I knew exactly who I didn’t want you
to be. And now here we are, you balanced on
the lip of manhood, me objecting without
a word. You’re choosing my father’s profession,
one I didn’t want for you, cop legacy
pre-ordained. It’s just a ride along you say,
a project for school, and I nod, swallow my
words as fast as they come to me. Once you rode
on my rounded hip as I erected waist-high
bars to keep you in. Now you study me with
eyes I look up to meet, braced for the impact
of your words. A scorpling, clinging to the back
of its mother, hardens and then lets her go.