The cure for what ails you

Fotografia de Taylor Hernandez

The cure for what ails you

is a good run, at least according to my mother,
which has seemed, all my life, like cruelty —

when I had a fever, for example, or a heart,
shipwrecked & taking on the flood. But now,

of course, this is what I tell my friend whose eye
has been twitching since last Tuesday, what I

tell my student who can’t seem to focus
her arguments, who believes, still,

that it’s possible to save the world
in 10-12 pages, double-spaced & without irony

I’m asking Have you tried going for a run?
You know, to clear your head? this mother-voice

drowning out what I once thought
to be my own. I’ll admit that when that man

became the president, before terrified I felt
relief — finally, here was the bald face

of the country & now everyone had to look
at it. Everyone had to see what my loves

for their lives, could not unsee. Cruelty
after all is made of distance —

sign here & the world ends
somewhere else. The world. The literal

world. I hold my face close to the blue
light of the screen until my head aches.

Until I’m sick & like a child I just want
someone to touch me with cool hands

& say yes, you’re right, something is wrong
stay here in bed until the pain stops & Oh

mother, remember the night
when, convinced that you were dying,

you raced to the hospital clutching
your heart & by the time you arrived

you were fine. You were sharp
as a blade. Five miles in & I can’t stop

thinking about that video. There’s a man
with his arms raised

in surrender. He was driving
his car. His own car & they’re charging him

bellowing like bulls I didn’t shoot you, motherfucker,
you should feel lucky for that. Yes. Ok.

Fine. My body too can be drawn
like any weapon.

Cameron Awkward-Rich