Two Pieces

I send my son to school and call in sick so that I can sleep.

I dream that I send my son to school and call in sick so that I can sleep. After my son leaves, something that looks like my son remains in the house. The Not-Son walks around the house in my son’s clothes, plays with his toys. The Not-Son does everything my son would do if I hadn’t sent him to school so that I can sleep. I am not sleeping because my husband wants me to care for the Not-Son. It is not safe, he says, to leave him unsupervised. He does not say whose safety is at risk. I try to tell him that the Not-Son is not our son, but he does not care. I do not know what I will do, whether going forward I will have two children: a son and a Not-Son.

I wake to a still house. All day, around each corner, just out of sight: a presence.

Not my son, but not exactly not him, either.

After Amy Miller

the car barreling through the yellow light will not

your spine will not snap like a greenstick when you jump from the

no need to throw myself into the canal to keep water from clogging

the hunk of hotdog won’t lodge in your

allergens closing your throat as you

the fever torching the forests of your cheeks will not

thick smoke replacing the air in each room of the house until

tornado whipping away the roof, debris closing us in with no

the silence from your room does not mean

all day I static-stop thoughts that might

for I am determined that you will always