POETRY
By Michelle Parker Randall
You tell me I’ve given you something impossible. You
shake your head to the rhythm of my voice pealing you
are safe, safe; you hold out your hands, wrists together,
for handcuffs only you can see. Our son visited today,
but you will not remember. He sits in a lobby, five
locked hallways away, and spent one minute in the
room, which was time enough to see a father fetal, a
body quaking in terror—the mind creates a type of real,
sometimes—nothing but fingers grabbing at your feet.
Nightmarish journeys. I take him home and leave you
starless, knowing you hear what’s not there, maybe like
the sirens Odysseus opened his mind to, his trusted crew
staying course and rowing, immune to his torment. We
cannot stay. During tomorrow’s visit, I’ll relay the story
to you: arms and oars made passage possible—pull and
lift. Pull. Lift. Lost. You remain adrift. Tied up, again,
as if to a mast.
This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.
Photo by Cherry Laithang.