I was afraid he’d stop breathing

During his impossible naps

I was afraid he’d fall and bleed

When he started walking too soon

I was afraid his own cells

Wouldn’t stop attacking his body

I look at him now

And see

This beautiful, peaceful, happy

White son

Barely beyond a decade

Full of joy

But sometimes,

I look at his crumpled face

And see

his anger

Will someone be afraid of him someday?

I’ve been hurt by white men





Never with such devastation

Will my son

Who looks like killers

Be someone who hurts?

How do I stop?

What do I say?

How can I discipline?

When step away?

Will I be afraid of him?

The boy I loved the

Moment he formed

Before any of him


And then we formed him

Or tried

What if

I’m afraid

I See Me

I See Me


I don’t like to see me.


I remember nights of towels

to catch,


to cover

over mirrors

so I couldn’t.


A glimpse was too much.


Not the body.

Not the deeper.

I couldn’t see.


Loving someone makes

us see.


Not them.


The beauty of

the ugly.

What we look past

In our own selves.

To them, visible, a

downy, perfected smooth

under a touch,

when all we see,



are the raised ridges of the scars


If I was looking,

they were looking,

each other in the eyes,

of the same height.


I could stand

the emotional



But when the physical difference

is a matter of inches

and the year displacement

is thirty,


and it’s your own child,


at once

you don’t see your faults



Fuck ups,


because they’re not

exclusively yours now.


They’re shared in miniature,

not as boulder-ous,



as yours.


But they’re still yours.

And now.

They’re his.


He has your eyes.

Your dance.

Your heart


And you see

what the

ones who looked in your eyes,

at your height,



Your insecurity.

Your give up at a glance.

Your blame and accuse.

Your drive to be


because trying


Is too hard.



Now his.

And you can’t take them back.


He yells and stomps like you.

He hurts.

With the pain you know.



I see me,

in him.

I did that.

That’s what I’m meant,

forced,  to see.


He sees me,

And knows.


I don’t want him to know that.


I don’t want him to see.


But he sees me.


I see me.


I want him

to see.




Pre-teen Blanket 

This is my latest Dark Yarn. 

On the surface, it’s not dark. It’s bright and cozy. The idea is adorable. My son’s new step-brother has a nursery filled with Winnie the Pooh and friends. 

I couldn’t quite bring myself to make the baby a new blanket. I started. I tried. His mother and grandmother are beautiful yarn artists, so the young one with have his share of cuddly wrappings. It’s good he didn’t need mine. Because I couldn’t keep going. 

I wanted to make a blanket for my own son. But, one he could share with his new brother. The one who shares his father and his initials and his half-birthday. 

So, we came up with this pre-teen blanket. No too baby-ish. (I was warned. Several times. Someone is not a baby.) But something that could bridge the gap between the boys-the distance spanning their rooms and their ages.

It wasn’t an easy blanket to crochet. Technically, it was simple. Emotionally, it was a tangle of dropped stitches and twisted wool. 

My heart hurt as I wrapped and pulled. I cried a bit. I made an absolute mess of the red yarn. I ripped it apart. I put it back together. And I kept on going. One stitch at a time. 

I hope both of these boys like their blanket. Something to share. Something to remember. 

I’m so glad I made it. 

And I hope I can keep on going.