Fragile X Syndrome
“Safety is all well and good: I prefer freedom.”
― E.B. White, The Trumpet of the Swan
They call it delayed, fragile chromo-
somes that string you together
perfectly—they make my freckles
shift on the shirt of my being: genetic
punctuation marks. Lessons arrive slow-
by-slow-word, you draw out uneven
biases I fumble together with the same
wonder for connection that made you
want to be seen, anchored to another, my sweet
boy, this is one way to learn
the poverty of acceptance around us,
threadbare—I am to blame
too. I said Yes!
to their screening, strutted towards the
All Clear. Told everyone it
Didn’t matter anyway—yet,
at home, I now hide all the mirrors from
my reflection, from the world’s reception
of you—pick apart my seams, gene-
by-gene, the hem of who I thought I was
frays when I measure up the same
as you beyond the micro-
array, sliding past what we all flock to,
half-asleep in a row,
city pond ducking, all-
istic blind to the hinterland,
where, trumpet in hand,
you swan—