Couvade syndrome

Even though scientists proved a few outliers had 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

were nodding at each other now that they had a name for their ordeal,

and once all the games were played and gifts unwrapped,

my aunt presented my husband with a slab of cake and a deep bow,

and my husband kicked back in his lawn chair and forked a piece into his mouth

with gusto as deviled egg refluxed into my throat every time the baby kicked,

but many years later I understand that my husband owning Couvade’s

was a fine thing, a good thing, similar to my nighttime mantra, You’re invincible,

as if my stitched-up heart throbs like Popeye’s traps on spinach,

but when a wicked wind blows through the window like a deviled train,

it’s time to kill the lie that once you’re struck you’re doomed to be struck again,

doomed to run barefoot across an open field, arms waving like antennae,

because the stories we tell ourselves are not the stories we tell others,

the stories we tell ourselves are forked and hot, turning the night sky violet,

and when a wicked wind snaps saplings at the throat, it’s easy to believe

there is shelter beneath the biggest tree, but that’s bad advice, similar to the lie

that to resuscitate with your soft lips a heart struck into stopping will stop yours too,

as if dumbly watching lips blanch blue is an act of self-preservation rather than

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