Today's poem is by Rob Talbert

Recap and Apology

I remember darkness inside the car,
and watching you in the night outside.
Both sides of black cradling us like a mother
made of void. I was more restricted,
encased in a toddler's body, and you, the pinball
careening between policemen. Your son
in your hands, and I a son captive to that theater.

Years later I heard you drove from North Carolina
with the windows down to air out the linen
of your screams about a man giving up,
a man against the river of his own words.
Of all the times you crossed this country
stitched with promises and hope
when have you felt the needles do anything but pierce?

The buildings of any city stand tall and trusting,
and I know you've seen them all, sister. The curves
of St. Louis, labyrinth of Houston, the portal to heaven
in Little Rock. But always the sky is wrecked
at sundown. Always your son grows up and away.
Soon he'll be strong enough to eat you alive.
Some men do it so subtly it will feel like love.

Copyright © 2014 Rob Talbert All rights reserved
from The Adroit Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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