Perfect Submission
Diana became a child who never grew,
who remained – even at seven years old –
a floppy, longish infant,
one with little muscle tone,
unable to sit up by herself,
not crawling or pushing herself around —
totally dependent on her family
for daily life and breath.
I tried to feed her something,
talking to her, encouraging her,
playing with her, being with her,
holding her on my lap then
laying her on the floor with her head
propped up with pillows
as I chattered away,
encouraging her with little blips of sounds,
mostly baby-talk and nonsense noises
to bring us together in that moment,
drinking in time as if there were no time.
It was as if I had regressed
to being a high-school baseball catcher again,
shouting the outs,
directing the team —
but here I caught only the air,
throwing back balls to nowhere
yet I pumped out sounds,
my voice bouncing
off the kitchen tiles
to settle into the silence
around the rest of the house,
keeping up my catcher’s patter
while the game reeled
onto an invisible field
full of changing forms
as my voice echoed
off the oak moldings
throughout the house
finally, to settle
into stillness and rest.