Texas Mother's Song

Eleven years ago
my son came early.
His father left before that.

So I drove the pickup
to the hospital,
amniotic fluid soaking the seat.

They gave me pitocin and a hard time.

When he was born
he had trouble.
I spent five days

sitting near his isolette
holding his red fingers:
then we could leave.

I walked us down that long hall,

my shoes squeaking
on the tile floor,
the plastic car seat

bumping my hip.
I thought the green walls
would fall on us,

then we made it out the double doors.

The asphalt was soft
beneath the Texas sun
I could see the pickup

listing at a hundred yards:
a flat. Nothing
to do but change it.

In the rosy evening light, I put him in the bed

and changed that tire.
Bone weary, I drove
us home to my father’s house.

No one fussed over us.
Today my son came home
to a strawberry short cake.

Eleven candles burn in the center.

My father says,
“It seems like yesterday
you came here

a wrinkled little
red bastard. Now
look at you.”

My son blushes at the words.

Tomorrow we will
put our things in the bed
of that truck

and drive away
to Chicago
where a new job waits.