blame it on the weather

It's a gift and a curse that I live in this reactive body of mine.
So perfectly, predictably responsive.
Stimulus input, response output
and nothing left to blame.

I've grown weary of this equal and opposite reaction routine.
I'm ready for one direction, ready to make a little headway,
instead of holding the steady hand of homeostasis.

I'll blame it on the weather.

I'll blame it on dead relatives.
Coffins solemnly wheeled out of churches into the rain
past the outside edge of your peripheral vision
through the blind spot you know is there but never see
as your aunt and cousins close their bodies in on each other-
Thanksgiving was too long ago
when he was always just down the back steps.

(And you wonder who will be next,
someone in your family will have to be next)

I'll blame it on too much time in hospitals.
Surrounded by the fetal monitoring strips,
mapping out the early and variable decelerations
of a tiny heartbeat inside a body that is only potential
that has never felt the air on a hot day
or left a carbon footprint
or sat under a tree for shade, looking up at the faces of family


I'll blame it on this eternally two-sided coin
one side the sterile, slow slipping away
of a life timed out in alarms at the nurses' station.
The other the bursting, flowering fullness
of the woman about to bear fruit,
the sweaty scream and push
that accompanies our entrance into this world
this one world we must eventually exit.

I'll blame it on the feeling that I'm stealing.
Ripping out an essential life force
as I grip this central line,
take hold of these pacer wires
and feel their resistance,
tugging at the ventricles
and pull what feels like miles of tubing
out from the insides of a 10 pound kid.

I'll blame it on 12 hour shifts
in these 24 hour days.

I'll blame it on regular sex,
leaving nothing left to yearn for.

I'll blame it on these slivers I keep getting,
reaching up from railings and floorboards
like little daggers
from a vengeful enemy,
bent on taking me by surprise.