My son is
led from my house
in handcuffs,
as I catch a glimpse
of myself in the
hall mirror.

At least my hair
looks good today,
I think to myself,

The window of my
front door frames
his long, gawky body
and I think that
it’s almost like
a picture I have
hanging on the wall
when he was three,
except for the handcuffs and
the police car and the bitter
look in his eyes.

Could this be the same
kid who loved me so much.

I pace the hallway,
looking at my toenails
painted blush pink in my sandals,

Summertime is usually better than
this I tell myself
How was your summer?
Oh fine, it was warm, and my son was arrested
for selling drugs.

The air conditioner kicks on
as the hot air from the open screen door
flows through, and I think
of my electric bill and how much
it will cost,
when I’ve already paid way too much.

Menopause.
A time to pause
from a fascination
with men
and the grey flannel cologne left on my sweater after an embrace,
and how they don’t think about the same things,
and how their thighs feel in tight blue jeans.

It seems less important
as it once was,
and I begin to wonder
what it was that I just
had to have that man for,
that made me give up
my own judgment in order
to silence disagreement,
that made me think his desires
should count more than mine.

And I pause,
my body pauses,
from the cycle that has
run its course for 30-some years
and I look at who I am
and I know.
Now it is I know.

It hit me then
that you would never get well,
that your time in rehab was really meant
for me the parent who is dealing with the
addiction,
who needed a break from the
chaos.
that you would come home and
stay clean for a while,
biding your time,
waiting for me to look away,
slither snake-like
towards your hole,
back to the depths
of the earth
where my love didn’t matter
or count and life
was foggy
like the smoke rising from
the joint you
have sacrificed your
life for.

Blue jeans worn for days,
slick with grease and filth
hung around the
hips of my step-father,
Caterpillar-brown boots
coated with dust
Hanes t-shirt hung loosely,
sweaty and smelly,
his big ears and balding
head that would
reflect the evil
light of his soul-less-ness,
blue eyes glazed over with
lust for helpless
12-year-old girls
and a smile that
could coat my heart with ice

Now he is old
Afraid of death,
My icy smile gloats.