surviving guilt 96 hours post CT

in a tub that is
3 parts bubble
1 part water
it is hard to find
toes to tickle
least of all clean
he sloshes and splashes
creating bubble beards
and fists of steel
air punches launch at
no target in particular
a day is recounted
there was art and
music he still remembers
the lyrics to christmas songs
learned months ago
and what about the birthday
party can’t he go
convincing me that santa
is in fact real and not just
a guest to be invited to
Jesus’ birthday bash
it was his giggle
that did me in
a perfectly normal reaction
in a completely routine task
beneath his chin there is a
spot i forgot was sensitive
and while scrubbing he laughed
out loud glee filled the small
bath and ricocheted off
the walls echoing back and forth
i was caught in the rapid fired
and nearly missed the tears
forming he has no idea
in a world where breakfast
is an everyday smorgasbord
he knows nothing of hunger
in this space where the only
rules are mommy made
he feels

impotence fills me
till breath becomes
difficult to manage
hope i cannot swallow
chokes me
what can i do

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