Crutches by William Miller

At first, fever 103, then hot needles
in my ankle, sharper, deeper by the hour,
the minute.  My mom had a date that day—
her face turned purple, almost black
with rage—nothing got between her
and a few drinks, the chance to dazzle,
charm another man.

But we had to go, finally left in our Corvair
without heat, first to the drugstore
for a pair of crutches so I could hobble
from the parking lot to the door
of the emergency room.  At the foot
of the bed, the bald doctor said
if the swelling didn’t stop

within an hour, I’d lose my leg from
the knee down.  One less sock,
one less shoe for the rest of my life.
“What if you don’t cut it off?”
I asked.  “You’ll die,” he said without blinking.
My mother stood there and seemed
more glad than sorrowful—no child,

no son forever.  But I didn’t die or lose
my leg.  Penicillin around the clock,
bone shots three times a day
stopped the heartbeat of her ugliest dream.
For a year, I hobbled from class to class
until the left one broke and sent me
flying down the hall.  The kids laughed

and laughed.  There were other kinds
back then, aluminum that never broke
or embarrassed.  But my mother was cheap
except with herself, makeup, plastic surgery—
a pioneer of vanity.  For years, I used her
as a crutch, limped on bad memories
into a dark room filled with pot smoke,

bottles of prescription pills and Jim Beam…
I heard she died yesterday.  Who won’t
forgive his mother?  What ungrateful child?
One day I will find her grave, stumble
on a red-clay country hill, and leave
my crutches on her grave.  Another foot
will deepen the ground, leave a new print behind.