Steven Sanchez
Tread
He helps me carry
their old hutch
into my apartment,
but I let go
before he’s ready—
oak slides against his palm
and he winces before running
water over his hand.
He searches for splinters
the way he looks for leaks
in a tire, air bubbles replaced
by subtle stings. He taught me
to carry heavy things
with my legs, to keep my back
firm like a handshake.
The glass panes already missing,
I remember how he’d say
it’s better to break something
instead of someone—I can replace
windows and dishes, but never your mother.
I prayed for their divorce,
prayed for his lungs to collapse
every time glass splintered
around his fist. I don’t pray
anymore. When he calls, I sit
by him in the hospital room
each time his lung deflates,
and the doctor shrugs, says
it’s spontaneous, as if his lung
were a tire, subject to
hydroplanes, black ice,
and the debris we run over
every day. When he finds a bolt
in his tire, flush against the tread,
he whispers Thank God. How lucky
for tires to leak air slowly
instead of blowing out—maybe
that’s its own kind of mercy.
Fresno Writers dot com 