TESTIMONY AFTER THE VARICOCELECTOMY
My mother changes the bedpan, the evidence
of life. Stomach, definition of withhold, overripe
plum I did not purchase. I would never crave
this heaviness, the way she folds over my body
with braided fingers. Meanwhile, I dream about a god
shaped like a subway station. From the surface, she blames
a dose of codeine. She is careful in her faith-giving tread,
knowing morning is installed and foreign as a catheter.
I wonder if there is a word to describe when your mother
empties the evidence of you down the toilet, flushes.
Peter LaBerge is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania. His recent work appears in such publications as The Louisville Review, DIAGRAM, The Newport Review, BOXCAR Poetry Review, and Hanging Loose. In the past, he has been named a two-time Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Gold Medalist for Poetry and a Foyle Young Poet of the Year, among others. He grew up in Connecticut, and currently serves as the Editor-in-Chief of The Adroit Journal.
Image credit: MIT-Libraries on Flickr
Author photo by William Sulit
Read more from Cleaver Magazine’s Issue #4.