Visitation

Last time I saw my half  brother alive, he was sleep in our father’s police

jeep with one arm stuffed up his shirtsleeve—that’s    at least    what I needed.

I was in there too,

making Polly Pockets hook up in the cup

holder. Of that, I’m certain.              I deserved

that.

We got left in the car while daddy shopped Lowe’s for a four-mode

showerhead suitable for Pricilla, the woman he bench-pressed & ballooned

his privacy for. I recall her bonnet making couch cushions slick & me

sweeping her taupe-colored makeup wipes from behind the vanity when

the trash can was thrown to break my heart for lying. Something

about her nightgown with the chartreuse tassels, I feel,

encouraged him to leave us in the backseat, at the Bally

Total daycare, “in our skin”—a joke of his

that ends, “when I jumped out, you

jumped in.”

But this wasn’t most my life. I belonged to my mother

six hours west and only left

once a season

for the purpose of daddy laying his belts and

depression on me. If ever I were trapped in his

car or harmed with garbage, it was only once

a season.

                  Between these visits, he’d never call to

                  see how I was. He’d never call to say how

                  anyone else was.                             It wasn’t that

                  I lacked a phone. Mama strung a double dutch of

                  landlines in every bedroom. I had the means

                  to speak. There were means

                                   everywhere I slept.

 

But harm isn’t most my life.

I weep & achieve it only once

a season.              If ever I am

trapped in police cars or harmed

with garbage, it is only because

it is the season.