“survivors,” she said
and you can see it
in the fear that never leaves his eyes
like at any moment, the arm might swing back
to knock him flat again
and if it did
i know that he would laugh
not with joy, but nervous
covering up the red bleeding thing he holds to his chest
trying not to be what he is
which is five years old
with a gap-toothed smile
and a flash of pink gums
and the wildness that never fully fades
when you hold him
even then, his body is fighting
because every day
that he is home, fed, clothed, loved
his tiny brain says he is
fighting
for his life
“survivors,” all of them are
with her hard eyes
and the tough body that falls and
jumps and
kicks
as if there is no brick wall her head cannot smash through
she doesn’t flinch in the face of pain
her eyes are steady, cold, lifeless
as she looks at it
without fear or caution
and she, like the boy, will laugh
joylessly and without his edge of fear
her laugh is like the roar of a lion
meant to instilll fear in anything
that would dare
get in her way
“survivors,” they have had to be
with small sharp teeth
and narrow beady eyes
with the look of deception so deep
you wonder if they’ve forgotten how to tell the truth
or to look into eyes of love
honestly, without shrinking from it
with small greedy hands
and clever slender fingers
a laugh that can be piercing
like joy is a candy sweet
she is surprised, delighted with the taste of it
or hollow as a dead church bell
false and uncanny
she is a conman in a tiny body
catching everything, everything
but never caught
always caught off-guard
by warmth
by arms that hold her gently
by people that don’t leave
and she said “they are all survivors”
and it’s true
even the ones who don’t have the look
the laugh
the head like a wrecking ball
the hands of a thief
even the ones that cry at sad movies
that hold your hands
without squeezing too hard
without seeming to doubt
if you will still be here tomorrow
even her
she is a survivor as much as any of them
gentle and soft and
how crazy is it, then, that she has made it this far
this seems proof enough
that under warm brown skin
and trusting eyes still kind
as if no one has ever caused her pain
there is something strong and brave beneath
my gentle survivor
she told me they were “survivors”
and i suppose…
that should be obvious
from the swagger
the deep rasp of panic
when he gets angry
and i must remember — at all costs —
that anger is a mask for pain
and fear
even though his eyes are cruel
and his actions often are too
this is what he has had to be
to stay in one piece
in a world that could shatter smaller prettier things into dust
and he is anything but
iron will, iron mind, iron skin
have i ever seen him cry?
maybe somewhere beneath it all
i can hardly imagine, but how beautiful?
there is a boy who dances with eyes closed
and a real smile on his lips
“survivors” is a hard word
for a hard world
and she is not a survivor by choice
she had no say in what was done to her
and so small, she goes on living
because there is no other way
she laughs that laugh
that makes you want to weep
because God made such perfect things
and He watches as they are broken
her shoes are too big
and her dress falls off one shoulder
like a little Mary Magdalene
how strange to think she will carry all
the shame, the burden, the guilt
and he will carry none at all
that she must be protected
because it happened once it can happen again
it will happen again
she is a glass thing — once broken, prone to breaking easily
and yet
she smiles at me
some of our kids, these “survivors”
wear the title on their skin
and for some, maybe, it would be a sign of weakness
but not for him
the scars that ripple their way
across forearms powerful enough
to flip someone easily onto their back
and he’s fifteen
i call him my baby
“you’re my favorite,” i whisper to him
and he doesn’t answer
but he remembers
i think he must remember it all
he has learned to wear them, these scars
with the same ease
as basketball shoes and skinny jeans
with the same ease that he disappears
he wear hand-me-down letter jackets
that make me wish he could play american football
because he’d be a star
my boy
they are survivors
she was right
the poem could go on and on
more eyes that have no light
more smiles that echo sadness into mind
more babies who have lived lifetimes
more hands grown hard but
somehow
gentle in mine still
survivor
it doesn’t mean you are bad
because bad things happened to you
but oh, beautiful ones
i cry for the things that have been lost
but i stand in awe of
the glorious thing you are now