घुड़सवार

In seventh grade

my mother bought me a Littmann,

black like the one she got

for my brother.

Like father like son

I overheard her tell him—

a newly minted medic.

Many years yet

to be dad,

I thought.

Before you mourn me

and search the next few lines

for angst,

for my bitter longing—

the poems that never grew

to be me.

Before all that

this is something

you should know about me—

I lie.

In clinic yesterday

I doubled down inside

clenching my gut,

fingers pressed tight

in an exaggerated namaste,

shaking my head

at a stricken woman’s

gratitude—you saved

my son, doctor.