the closets we keep

my son pulled the plug out of the socket. i reacted.
my voice became a switch. i could feel my empty
tonsils rattling like belt buckles hanging on
the inside of a closet. a closet i trained to keep closed
as much as possible.

i have no closets in my current apartment but i do 
have this throat that hangs baggage in the dark. 
it acts like a closet. my son is two years old & repeats
everything that comes out of this closet. i’m not

burying skeletons here. i’ve tried that & these 
bones are a prideful bunch of horror villains. they don’t
accept dying as an option. 

my son reached for the outlet. fruit punch dripping off 
his chin & cheese puff residue on his tiny fingers. i let out
a roar that made this closet purr, tongue clapping the roof 
of this mouth incessantly.

i watched his back curl in surrender,
bend & slither, become a snake following the notes of a flute.
this closet is an instrument playing the wrong song.
there is no rhythm here that i want to dance to. 

i asked my son to stand up. i didn’t demand it.
i said i love you, i’m sorry.
slowly & melodic. holding out each syllable so
he can memorize it. so he can know that forgiveness
is not a choking hazard. 

i found the boy again in my voice. held his hand out.
called my throat a throat again & plugged the socket back into 
the outlet.