For my achondroplasic child

by Luciano R. Mendes

Your mother died of cancer, my child.
She died slowy, without drama
but with great agony.
That's the answer I gave you when
you asked me why I never
finished writing my first romance.
You took your tiny
and deformed hands
to my face and touched my eyes
with love
and violence.
I stood, I went away: it was
time for your injection: growth
hormons from
men that are even more
dead
than me.