Surviving

/ Poetry /

Sophie had a daughter, who died an infant.

She lived—how could she not—and gave another birth. A son.

The son grew out of infancy. He lived.

Sophia thought her daughter should live: how could she not / think how could she not / live how

could the son / go on to live and live / the way men would live how could he not / live the way

she / herself lived / the way her daughter / was supposed to live if he was going to

She put him in a dress and taught him to sit with legs crossed. She brushed his hair every other

hour. She pulled it as tightly as possible when she braided it. She snapped “shut the fuck up” and

cooed “sorry gee so sorry” and promised she would give him a kiss and a pair of frilly socks. She

said “pain is not worth doing anything about” when his feet blistered from a pair of patent leather

Mary Janes. She read him florid verses. She called him Sophie though the son’s name was René.

“What was the daughter named?” The son asked. Her grave continued to be unmarked.

The son—whose name was René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke—was expected to be a

son, too. At 11, he was sent to a military academy, then at 16, to study business at a trade school.

René fought with his mother when she tried to pack his luggage for him. For years, she had made

him wear femininity on his breast pocket. He tied it around his waist. He held it at an arm’s

length. Now, he was trying to put away the foreign, delicate article.

He thought he only wanted one / thing poetry / to only be one thing / a poet if there was / such a

chance if only he could re-

“Yes—” He wrote, “I am Rainer.”