WHEN I WAS
When she was
stiff and brand new—
she breathed only halfway,
like I did
when I came back from death,
a soft weight
wrapped in my mother’s arms
running toward
fluorescent salvation.
there was a cost—
you feel it in the joints,
in the clicks of becoming
a machine,
an engine,
a child
re-learning breath.
i touched her gently—
checked her rhythm,
spoke to her warmth.
turned the key
like i once turned back
to this world.
she sputtered,
jerked—
the way i did
before memory locked in.
and slowly,
we found our motion.
low to second to high—
the hum like heartbeat.
around the corner of something divine
i pressed down,
gave her the juice—
and she came alive.
first ride,
first taste,
and we both knew—
this was joy borrowed
from some distant grief.
on return,
i stopped her with care—
both hands—
brought her trembling
into quiet.
as I once was.
as I still am.
giving you
what’s left of the cake.
E.P. Robles | Poetry 