Alec Cizak

Mama

Alec Cizak

They say I’ll shout Mama the moment before I die, that I’ll forget they ripped me from your womb as you surfed an epidural slumber.

You never cradled me in your teenaged arms before they handed me over to the people I call Mom and Dad, the ones who wiped my ass, changed my diapers, and wept when they learned I filled my heart’s hollow chambers with a different kind of chemical snooze.

I still wonder who you are, where you are, if you are.

Will my search cease as they dim the lights, my last gasp on this brutal stage?

I know your name. I do not know your face, your breath, your touch.

I imagine cold fingers that grim moment, the final act, draping a dirt quilt over cobalt eyes you armed me with, shutting off the spotlight, hushing an audience you chose not to be a part of.