Couvade syndrome

Even though scientists proved a few outliers

had greatly skewed the data,

I’m attached to the myth that people

who have been struck by lightning

are more likely to get struck again,

and since it’s such a good conversation starter

I share it matter-of-factly, similar to when

my husband announced at my baby shower

that he was suffering from Couvade syndrome

and phones came flying out to google Couvade,

and within minutes men started nodding at each other

now that they had a name for their ordeal,

and once the games were played and gifts unwrapped,

someone presented my husband with a slice

of chocolate cake and a dramatic bow,

and my husband kicked back in his lawn chair

and forked a piece into his mouth with gusto

as my toes swelled and egg salad refluxed

into my throat every time the baby kicked,

but years later I understand that my husband

owning his Couvade’s was a fine thing, a good thing,

similar to the mantra I use to get to sleep,

repeating you’re invincible, as if my stitched-up heart

throbs like Popeye’s bicep jacked on spinach

until a wicked wind warns it’s time to take shelter,

time to stop walking barefoot through ozone,

time to kill the belief that once you’re struck

your doomed to be struck again,

but the stories we tell ourselves

are not like the stories we tell others,

the stories we tell ourselves are forked and hot,

cracking down and turning the night sky violet,

and when the wind screams, it’s easy to believe

there is shelter beneath that big tree,

easy to think there’s respite under those branching arms,

easy to think that pressing your back against

its wide trunk will keep you safe,

but this is a lie, similar to the oft-told tale

that to resuscitate with your soft mouth

a heart struck into stopping will stop your heart too,

as if standing dumbly watching lips blanch blue

is an act of self-preservation

rather than a tragic misunderstanding,

that what’s true is to drop to your knees and play god.