What I Kept Saying

Four stitches in his chin. I held him down—

both palms flat on his chest, the paper gown

bunched at his neck. Don't move. I didn't move.

The needle curved through skin. Nothing to prove

except hold still. The thread was black.

I watched it pull the edges of the cut back

together, slow. His body arched. His scream

hit every wall. His eyes on mine—a seam

of trust I was tearing just by holding him there.

I said it's fine, it's fine. A prayer

for my own hands. The doctor tied four knots.

The glove left chalk along his jaw. Three dots

of ointment on the gauze. Then the crying stopped—

he asked about the popsicle. He'd swapped

the worst ten minutes of his year for grape,

purple down his wrist, the great escape

of being four. Already done.

I stood there with the wrapper. Buckled my son

in his car seat. He slept before the highway,

the stick still in his fist. I drove the long way

home. Both hands. The mirror every mile—

his chin, the thread, the scab. And all the while

my palms still buzzing with his chest. I'm home.

Three hours gone. The kitchen dark. The chrome

of the faucet catching streetlight. My hands

press the counter, flat. He lands

so easy in his sleep. Already past it.

My palms won't lift.