A Visit to Prison
2 Minutes Read Time
Somewhere . . . Someone remembers it was the day we visited your mom at work. The old Montford unit. I’ve driven pass that sonuva’ bitch everyday ¡chingao! twice a day for twenty-plus seasons while the burnt sky arched flat, bright with angry love, and I never told y’all que tenía familia . . . no need to say more. I sat backseat in your Honda Civic, a prisoner of worry, while the woodpecker in your engine block kept my almond eyes wide. I clearly heard the woodpecker, I did not mishear, but I will admit: memory feeds. The years pass like the tumbleweeds, a drag and gather. Few are the nights that remain in my memory, fewer are the memories I care for. Careful now: this is both story and truth. You went in. You came out. We headed back. I saw. I saw. Roads. Roads. Take it. Take it. Night with lungs full of smoke. The haunting humming of a West Texas wind. Howls of hate. I asked you: what is it like loving someone who only offers Faustian bargains . . . Even death gets tired, you said. We sat parked at the park like old debts, the sky overhead, wondering how many others watched its blush.
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