She tells me she woke up drenched in sweat and paranoia

The El Paso heat unforgiving on her chest

The silhouette of a stranger eclipsed the moonlight shining in the open window.

He was a soldier, at ease, looking down at her.

I am tucked away in my crib.

Dreaming whatever babies dream of,

Untouched.

From around the corner she heard him growl,

"Nothing will happen to your baby if you do what I say."

18 years ago a man who stood for our country stood inside my house.

18 years ago a man cut our electricity, slid in through our door ---

18 years ago I was the only witness to my mother's rape.

She tells me this while we are lying in bed

Still, she cocoons me with her arms as her veins unravel.

I am sweating with shame that my infant body couldn’t fight for her, or with her.

I am consumed with guilt for my vulnerability

But I am silent.

I am shaking

And I watch the gold fade from my mother as she breaks down from the retelling.

I see the funeral procession of a different future in her iris's

Her body is glass I'm afraid one touch will shatter

Her body was my body the night that time was not an issue

For the darkness that painted my house

I often wonder if he touched my cheek

Or admired the way my baby hair tangled itself into a choking mess

I wonder if he reminisced about raising his own children watching her take care of me when he allowed it

My piercing cries still not loud enough to alert the neighbors

I wonder if my mother once blamed me as much as I blame myself now

The only thing keeping her from running suckled on her breast as evil, out of his uniform, watched

Her pillow is soaked but I can’t tell with whose tears as

She takes me to the weeks before the trial,

There was a call-

She knew before they told her that they found him with a noose around his neck strung tighter than his moral standards

Leaving behind his wife

And fellow soldiers

And two kids

Stealing with him the shadow of my could-have-been brother, or sister.

It is her turn to cry as she hunches into the raw embodiment of love

I realize now why we always use the buddy system.

Why grandma would never let us go to the bathroom in public alone

I understand why I was conditioned to check on my little sister at night

Hoping she was still there

Hoping she was still breathing

I have stopped questioning my first instinct to cross the street when someone is behind me

Or to lock the doors as soon as I get in the car

I understand why there is a day in August that my mom's body is cement that she can't lift out of bed

Now I know why my dad's vowels are always rounded,

Like he is holding pills on his tongue

Because he doesn't know how to deal with a woman whose body has been made a tomb

This man took just about everything from my mom.

Her body.

A baby.

Her faith in humanity.

But one thing he left in the shadows of our house

Was the intimate, twisted bond her and I have today.

As women.

She is the lace to my converse, I see parts of her weaving in and out of me

On bad days, she will lie tangled up in knots

But know that I will come along to untie her feelings of emptiness

I will stitch her to myself and we will brave this world once again

Because it's been that way for 18 years.