Half-Life
3:00 a.m. Back
from the bathroom,
I've lain awake
for an hour. I
was all right at
2:00, most of me's
still O.K. My feet
are down at the end
of the bed, they and
my head and testicles
still seem to be
the right size. But
my hands, clamped
shut like a baby's
fist, are big as
a catcher's mitt,
each thumb's as big
as a fat man's leg.
I can't get any
sound up from my
throat. I grab
for breath, trying
to cry out.
Though
she has been dead
for half my life,
my mother — all
her illnesses
still intact — leans
her softness
over my crib,
and tries with-
out words to
hold me. She
tries and tries
to hold me.
_______________________
Philip Booth
Pairs
Penguin, 1994
