Photo by Paul Padgett

THE WHISPER

The hot, wet whisper of death
Is always on my neck

It came into the world with me
I almost died before I took my first breath
They thought my mother would die too

Instead I howled
My arrival into the world
With a pink fist raised in rebellion

My grandmother died too young of a terrible disease
That would take half of her children too
My aunt lost 5 of her 6 children
Before she died
Suffering is not distributed equally

My mother was lucky
She didn’t have any of those wicked genes
But she lost half of her children before she died anyway

And

My brother lost his first son
My sister lost her only son
Her only son lost his first child

I am the only one of my siblings
Alive with no dead children
The whisper is thick and heavy on my neck

It burns so hot
And then goes cold

Always