Visitor

My mother was arrested 
near her seventieth birthday, 
she scraped a parked car, 
left no note, 
her gym bag swinging 
into yoga class. 
 
When the cops entered 
mid–downward dog, 
she erupted— 
a torrent of grievance, 
blocks flying. But kicking? 
That was new. 
 
One night in jail for resisting 
arrest, I passed the detector, 
wore a badge stamped 
“Montgomery County 
Correctional Visitor” 
to bail her out. 
 
Four years later 
I wear VISITOR again. 
Punch in a code, walk past rooms 
done up in country kitchen 
to find my mother 
at her table 
eating her sandwich cautiously, 
 
with both hands, as I did once 
as a child afraid of speaking. 
 
A coach sits across from her, 
younger than most— 
he gulps apple juice in three 
Adam’s-apple swallows, 
shoulders squared, neck tilted. 
Still manly, though mute. 
 
He goes at his chicken breast 
while my mother smiles, 
muddles mucus— 
her desire to speak 
greater than his hunger. 

The coach reaches 
for my mother’s cup. 
Juice hardly seems worth a fight. 
Before I can move, she strikes— 
swift, white-knuckled— 
grabbing the rim above his fist. 
The cup trembles. My throat does too. 
 
A staffer steps in, restores the drink. 
The condensation ring 
sits like a prize on the laminate, 
a small victory. 
 
Then she looks at him— 
the coach—and her hand softens, 
slides the cup forward. 
Go ahead, honey, I hear, 
though only gibberish spills. 

 
Her fingers rest on the table— 
sandpapered, once nimble, 
once pyramids of light. 
As a child, I felt them 
stroking my hair, 
and could not believe my luck.