mutating the signature

The child was a sin, a fiend, unwanted, he could buy & sell
his keeper & he knew it. I tell you now, so you can

know—this happened once before. I was his
nanny, there was beauty on all sides, hills so green I thought

the earth was lit up from below, thought those flames
might claim them, row by grassy row, I

thought they were the children of the emerald
burst & broke from Satan’s crown, as he barreled

down from heaven into hell. Wait— before
he fell, a different name—Lucifer, light bringer, morning

star, magnificent & muscled, no conflict yet, no
blame. A stasis, if you will. Love, there’s much to tell

you still— take my fear
of novel song. Whole years new rhythms wronged

my heart the way Cyrillic hits my eyes: new!
they clattered, open! but I snapped its shutters

tight against their cries. My heart was such a settled
thing. As finished as the single, stony diamond

in my ring, (I pawned it just the other day) unscratchable,
a shining, hard display. Love, the child’s

heart was wicked, no light could thrive
in there, not one scant ray, or so I thought. His mother

brought him trinkets from each place she left
him for: Russian trapper with a sickle

and a star, trimmed in some poor rabbit’s coat, strings
of agate from an Indian bazaar, Tibetan prayer

flags, gelt, a five pound note. . .
He fingered them each time she closed the door

and left again. He hated me, I hated him. We were two
awful, wary dogs trapped in a ring— oh,

that’s a lie, he was the king, I was his serving girl, unbidden,
Jane Eyre sans Mr. R, I ferried him about

in their sleek car, Charon with a pouty bottom
lip, perpetually glossed, I bobbed and weaved

each time he tossed another slur my way, or winged
a die-cast tractor at his prey. Love, I had no talent

for this child. Then one night, I woke alone
to cries so wild I bolted like a shot

into his room, flicked on the light. His eyes
were open, but he couldn’t see, the clock read three

am, his little body buckled in the night, all
drenched in sweat. I didn’t want to touch, wouldn’t let

myself believe, (the diamond in my chest could barely
breathe) the child could grieve: eyes wide

open, body still asleep, one word keening
from his little mouth on stuttery repeat: Mama.

Like I said, this happened once before— my heart
split into two, my heart was his, and his heart

was a tiny, waged war, and we beat
side by side. I lifted his hot body

and we cried.