The ‘i’ in family
is always lower case.

I wasn’t given the smallest
room in my own life. Or,

if I was, it’s because I raised
my hand, a volunteer.

It’s what I deserve
is a martyr’s thought.

I took that room, reaching
out my arms, my hands

could tell themselves they
touched solid walls.  Call it

instinct. The way a rabbit
goes still, or a possum plays dead.

A child learns to take up less
space. The young wife wants

to please. The young mother—
both my children hold their life

differently: the full creature
of them inhabiting their full body—

I thought I knew
how far I couldn’t go.

—Rebecca Brock

Poet’s Website

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