Mother, Go.

Mother, go to your daughter. Force open her door. Ignore red-marker “Keep Out” signs, hanging listless, edges ripped, stuck with the clear tape you bought her.

Pick up clothes from the floor. Hang dresses she no longer wears, fold favored black leggings, black shirts. Straighten her mirror. A specter hovers in the glass, eyes above half-moons of shadows, mouth down-tilting. Turn away from what was once you.

She yells: go away. Listen to her become as though an animal slaughtered: scream and grunt and sob. Cross the room littered with fabric and brushes and crayons and broken dolls. Flip the blinds, allow light to penetrate darkness.

Stand back, be wary.

She springs from her bed: creature released. Watch her. See her rip her art from walls--the art she’d once offered, smile wide with hope, for your approval. You cannot stop her destruction: girl lit by rage into flame.

She shatters art into shards scattered over her bed. Hours of sculpting and painting gone in the flash when her universe split and she fell into the abyss. Dodge the decorated bowl, let it smash into harmless fragments behind you. Stuffed teddies fly, bleeding cotton from gashes. Fluffs of cotton rain around you. Brush them off.

Reach for her. Fight down her arms. Press her heaving body against yours, legs kicking in spasms as they had in your womb. Bend so she can twist fistfuls of your hair; feel the strands fill her hands. Your skirt soaks up her tears. She writhes in your lap. Her heart: wings of a hummingbird flitting. Her body, moist and warm. Blow breath into her flushed face. She gasps, drawing your exhalation of life into her lungs as if she were still connected to you, cord uncut.

Whisper: hush, my love, I am here. Feel the tide of her panic wane and recede; mark its ebbing and flowing. When she at last slips into whimpers, stroke the velvet of her skin. Beckon sleep to take her. Be ready: tomorrow may bring the next birth and death of a star.

She quiets in your arms. Your ribs crack wide: your bones expand to protect her. Pull her into the cage of your ribs, let her pulse with your heart.

Touch her forehead, hot from brewing torment. Wish you could syphon her suffering into your soul; know you cannot spare her.

Her long limbs tangle with bedding. Her hair bunches into knots. Work your fingers through them. Puff her pillow. Sing as you had a decade ago, when she’d nursed from your breasts, your nipples fissured with cracks. Her lips, a vise. Sucking milk and blood droplets. Mound of flesh that came from your flesh, mound of girl you dreamed into being.

Don’t wake her. Unwind her from you as you would a vine choking a column.

  * * *

Mother, go to your son. Search for him beneath beds, inside closets. Call the name you gave him. The name boys and girls at school mock, the weapon they wield. Say his name as it’s meant to be said: a hymn of devotion.

Go outside. Find him in a tree, legs dangling. Cheek pressed into scabbed wood. Shag of hair obscured by leaves. Sapling and boy intertwined.

The tree is weak; it too is a child. It too can crack in hurricane winds. When his father storms at his mother, your boy’s a tree straining to break free, trapped by a riot of roots.

Steady branches bent from the weight of his body. You know that weight, its heft and warmth. You know how you give way beneath it.

Tug on his bare foot, raw and scratched from careless climbing. Run your finger lightly over the sole. Feel the wounds. Coax him down, make your voice a balm. He pulls away; don’t let him. Climb onto the lowest branch. Wedge hips into a fork. Unwrap his arms that cling to twigs, that fight to resist you. Do not fall. Evade his kicks. Absorb his hits. Wrestle him to ground; let your chest and thighs protect him.

He slips from your grip, lunges to grab a fallen stick. Pull it away before he beats himself with it. When he bangs head against trunk, tree shivering at impact, place your hand between son and bark. He lowers his head like a goat, rams it into your flesh. Do not withdraw your crushed hand. Don’t cry when he says he desires to die, when he hunts for a rock to prove it. Throw yourself atop him until he squirms in the grass. Let him yell. Let him battle the tempest within. Keep him safe from himself until he calms.

Sit up. Open your lap, draw him to it. Lift his limp limbs. Cradle his face, its contours still curved with childhood. His fingertips brush your chin. He uses your hair to soak up his tears; let him twist it in fistfuls.

Dusk settles its mantle upon you, its lavender cool. Lean over. Root your child’s belly, in trust exposed. Hear the laugh beneath the smooth skin. Breathe in his boy scent. The musk of his sweat. Breathe deep, deeper. Memorize molecules to sustain you when he becomes a man, when he leaves you.

Show your son a wisp of moon; see it reflect in the wet of his eyes.