FAMILY VALUE

My first son

will be named after my first ex.

He’ll never grow up with the Gospel

tattooed to his license plate,

with no cure for a pedigree.

I’ll buy him paintbrushes and breakdancing lessons.

At night, I’ll dangle a bible from a branch

on the tree outside his window

when the wind is throwing temper tantrums.

In the morning, the curtains will draw the truth.

My second son

will take piano lessons until his fingers weep,

until he’s beaten into bravery,

playing Dead Kennedys ballads in every minor key

while counting the lapis above my breast.

The third boy

will be born with bad vision,

will get prescription handcuffs to see through.

He will promise me tragedies,

drop razorblades in my tea,

put dead bees under his pillow for the tooth fairy.

He’ll sit in the corner until sorry

for all those times he hit Mommy.

By the fourth one

I’ll need a babysitter.

He’ll have his father’s temper but no father.

I’ll catch him nailing his hand to his chest.

He’ll say he couldn’t remember

where his heart was.

He’ll lock himself in the bathroom,

punching his face until his jaw swells

into the man he’d like to become.

He’ll ask me to read him my diary

for a bedtime story.

I’ll become the woman of his nightmares.

When they all grow up and out,

I’ll move to France,

adopt a daughter

and never

give her a name.