He is screaming, now,
tears spitting, his gut
curls in to protect itself.
More animal, less boy.
He froths and spews.
She does not know what to do.
I hold her hand
as she reaches for his.
He recoils from her
and scowls. She
would like to be walking
through the aisles
laughing. She would
like to buy the boy
a warm shirt and
return to the rain
and breathe that rain scent
and admire the boy
as he splashes in puddles
and gets the new shirt wet.
But he is beyond froth now.
He blathers, unglues.
He twists and writhes
and spews and hurls.
I take the shirt from
her hand and return it
to the rack. When he
runs from her reach,
I do not hold her back.
I do not tell her
what to do. I listen
as she breathes
in, breathes out,
I watch as she looks
to the air, to the boy,
to the empty spaces
hanging on the racks.