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

and once all the games were played and gifts unwrapped, my uncle presented my husband

with a slice of chocolate cake and a dramatic bow, and my husband kicked back in his chair

and forked a piece into his mouth as my toes swelled and deviled egg refluxed into my throat

every time the baby kicked, but many years later I understand that my husband owning his

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

as if my stitched-up heart throbs like Popeye’s bicep jacked on cans of spinach,

but when a wicked wind comes through the window like a train, I know it’s time to kill

the belief that once you’re struck, your doomed to be struck again, doomed to run barefoot

across an open field of ozone, arms like antennae, because the stories we tell ourselves

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 neck,

it’s easy to believe there is shelter beneath the biggest tree, but that’s a lie, similar to the oft-told tale

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

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

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