Erica Dawson is the author of three books of poetry, most recently When Rap Spoke Straight to God (Tin House 2018). Her poems have appeared in three editions of Best American Poetry (2008, 2012, and 2015), Blackbird, Orion, The Believer, VQR, American Society: What Poets See, and other anthologies and journals. She holds a PhD from University of Cincinnati. She lives in the Baltimore-D.C. area.
While the calendar moves slowly
toward my scheduled hysterectomy
I watch my nephew read a book
slowly, the way that children do.
Enunciating every word.
Each letter starting somewhere deep
in the body. The heavy breath
of h, l’s forceful tongue. And I
am dumbfounded he just believes
sounds have meaning because we say
they do. He trusts language the way
he trusts the steady hand on the back
of his bicycle seat. Both will fail him,
of course. The hand will let go when
he doesn’t need it anymore.
And someday he’ll be left speechless
by a symphony, or, in his palm’s
hollow, a firefly’s night flash.
I tell him don’t be scared of silence
like I am, how it whispers and
hollers. I hear him listening.
He leans in close. My breath, his breath.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Image by Annie Spratt from Unsplash
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________