Michele Sharpe
PATERNITY 615243
Back before the truth was more
important than how I would
feel about it, my mother’s back
was against a wall, the man writhing against
her tiny body.
She was not yet grown,
in the moments my cells began to grow.
We would have been more
like sisters if my body and her body
had been her own. I would
have grown up with her, against
her, behind her, talking back
to my own image, giving back
what I could once she’d grown
old. But no. She was a child against
adults and no more
in charge of me than of what would
happen to her own body.
The man was in charge of his body,
though. He can’t take that back.
What else would
you like to know? He was grown,
ten years older than her. Maybe more.
She didn’t fight against
him. Her family didn’t act against
him. Some parts of my body
or soul must be like his, or more
like his than hers. The curve of a back
bone. The internet found him. He’s grown
old, in his ‘80’s, living in his wood-
frame house in Garden City. I would,
when younger, have raised my voice against
him. At least a voice. But I’ve grown
careful of my body
and my soul. I might head back,
stop by his yard, comment on nothing more
than how his back-yard garden seems more overgrown. He’d say,
Who the hell are you? I wouldn’t tell him. A secret kept against
the powerful is power. I’d smile. I’d take my body back.