Your husband and you lean over the edge, rooftop parking. Both of you panting, him holding his side. Bags from holiday shopping strewn near your feet. You watch four men meet in the center of the street below as if each of them advanced from designated corners of a boxing ring. Moments before, you stood in that center. The one with a red beanie pulled tight over his ears had crossed towards you, hands waving, Hey man! I need directions…
You bolt first, shout over your shoulder to your husband,
Run!
*
The thick mucus plug splats at her feet as she opens the door, hands on hips, mouth open, the nurse’s call button still blaring. Your son, ten months and not even ten pounds, splays `cross your thighs face down. One gasp of thick air and then
a silence that feels like that three second pause which follows a bombing. When your ears are not yet ringing. When you wonder whether you’ve lost your hearing. Or your mind. Perhaps your own gasping breath moves into rhythm with something ancient like the undertone of your ancestors,
a wail
from your infant son.
The nurse asks, How did you know to pound his back?
You can’t remember lifting him, placing him, flattening the heel of your hand between his blades,
dislodging the plug that blocked his life force.
You shrug.
*
Turkey. Land and sea ebbing and flowing with starving population. You ride in cargo aircraft loaded with crates of supplies and take your P-tabs as directed. Travel includes Batman, Sinop, and Silopi. Yes, there’s a station called Batman, like the superhero. At the entrance of one tent stands a yellow sign with black letters, Gotham City Hall. And beneath that, Police Dept. and the Bat signal painted in black. Military humor.
In your dreams, you’ll remember this boy, his belly bloated, his gaunt face haunting you. His eyes manage to sink and bulge at the same time. You hand him an orange and it floats above his palms, his arms splayed on outstretched legs. His skin taut `cross jutting bones and you want to help him open his treasure, peel the rind. You tap his shoulder, your hand draped in white feathers, when the orange rolls. It rolls first. Then the boy. Topples. Boneless. One tiny heap. You kneel beside him. Lay him flat. Shout, Help. Tilt his head. Place your ear near his mouth. Look at his chest.
Look for the rise.
Search for the fall.
You re-tilt, pressing his pointy chin to sky. His skin thin, fragile. His eyes glazed, unblinking.
You ask, Where’s his mother?
You ask, Where’s someone who knows what to do?
…one
and
two
and
three
and four...
You press his chest, one hand over top the other, over top the other. Knuckles calloused, fingernails bitten. Sweat drips—between your breasts, slips over your nose, into your eyes—until the boy blurs, into cloud, into white sun. And he was beautiful and peaceful and still. Beautiful. You did not pause.
Maybe he’ll return.
You’re not crying.
It’s only sweat.
Did someone say, “Let him go?”
Did someone say, “You tried.”
*
Mid-bite, mid-forkful of salad—well, iceberg with a crouton, if you call that salad—you feel the heat, everyone watching you. Your brother. His two toddler sons. His wife—though she is not looking at you—holds her face and sobs. Next to her, her 90-something year-old grandmother who reaches across the table and pinches a chunk of chicken off the red-checked cloth. The piece that only a few minutes ago lodged her airway.
You don’t remember the trigger. Surely something in your peripheral. Your brother asks, What just happened? You keep chewing—lettuce, garlic crouton, honey mustard dressing—stabbing your salad, stabbing your mind.
You remember rising, walking over, lifting the old woman from her seat. You remember thinking, Gawd, don’t break her. Then, one thrust with your fist and that chicken chunk thwacks, hitting the table. You remember settling her gently into her chair, returning to yours, adding some pepper because the salad sucks and now, now your nephews clap.
*
You press your lips over nose and mouth and suck first. The pup still wet, still sticky, still. Is this the seventh? The ninth? You lost count after six pups and now, the rest of your family sleeps. The pup, so still. Too still. When nothing comes from your sucking, you blow quarter-puffs and watch its tiny lift and lower. Barely a pound, the pup fits in your palm.
Its paws push towards sky and you think, Final movement, as something inside turns heavy. But the paws pedal the air and the pup squirms and you scurry for scissors and snip the umbilical cord, swipe your face with your forearm, wiping sweat, slime, tears.
Rebecca Evans writes the difficult, the heart-full, the guidebooks for survivors. Her work includes a full-length poetry collection, Tangled by Blood (Moon Tide Press, 2023) giving voice to childhood sexual trauma and healing, and a collection-length poem, Safe Handling (Moon Tide Press), weaving disability and medical industry challenges. Her forthcoming collection of flash essays, AfterBurn (Moon Tide Press, 2026) offers social commentary on surviving sexual assault. Her teachings combine visual art and empowerment and include over 20 years of working with teens in the Juvenile System. Evans is a disabled veteran and co-hosts Radio Boise’s “Writer to Writer” show.
