For my achondroplasic child

Your mother died of cancer, my child.

She died slowy, without drama

but with great agony.

That's the answer I gave you when

you asked me why I never

finished writing my first romance.

You took your tiny

and deformed hands

to my face and touched my eyes

with love

and violence.

I stood, I went away: it was

time for your injection: growth

hormones from

men that are even more

dead

than me.