I watch his nose, a trait ostensibly from his

sperm donor dad, shared by two of his three brothers,

some of his donor siblings, all

children of mothers and only mothers, a truth

that might one day bind them tighter than blood

or DNA if the country keeps on the way it is.

People think he’s my bio kid, brown hair and eyes

with oldest-child vibes, a penchant

for correcting adults’ grammar, a spongy mind soaked

with information: 12x12 is 144, a peregrine falcon can

reach up 240 miles per hour in a dive, Pikachu says

pikapika and god, he’s such a beautiful boy

holding my hand as he talks, his crooked front teeth,

which we need to get fixed, the slight

stutter that comes out when he’s excited. Anyone

who sees us can see it immediately:

a mother and her son, though they sometimes

think daughter because he has long, thick hair

and people are products of culture, oozing

stereotypes like puss from a wound, but still

they must see the truest part: he is mine

and I am his and we are family.

How could anyone not see that? I think, knowing

those people are out there, loud, and many

of them powerful. For my son, I smile

too big, nod too vigorously, wanting to keep

my fear inside lest it become untethered and catch him

up like unsuspecting prey. Fear of a darkening country

that punishes little boys with long hair and families

with two moms, perches on my chest like

a belligerent toddler and all I can do is hold it

hold his hand as I scream inside

and hope that this too shall pass.

 

He tells me he’s glad I like Pokémon as much as he does

and I smile and smile, hoping to trick myself into truth.