by Edgar Gabriel Silex

    I can't imagine a mother

    calling her child that

    I remember I used to

    fumble my words shy away

    always feigning ignorance

    I'd laugh at anyone

    who would even want to talk to me

    back when I'd grown dark enough

    to understand why

    the cops would pull me

    off the sidewalk

    and ask where I was going

    ne-ne-neh-nowhere sir

    I would stutter

    even as I knew what I just said

    would make them laugh

    and wink at each other

    even though I knew

    I could walk down any street

    even some they'd never go to

    through that memory I saw

    a child catching her words

    whenever I raised my voice

    or spoke directly to her

    or when she pretended

    not to know how to add

    subtract or push a button

    on a register or the least thing

    about the subtleties

    in human language anything

    that required confidence

    I felt that word lingering

    in the way she cast her eyes

    in her supplicated smile

    that touched me like a burning

    memory I am ashamed of

    and in the way it shied behind

    the reasons why we loved each other

    I would try to encourage her

    demonstrate how she could

    do things for herself

    ask for raises find out how

    she could finish college

    an educated professional

    years later her mother's voice

    would wax and she'd curl up

    to me too much and I couldn't

    shake her I couldn't

    figure out what made me

    finally overcome that feeling

    some cops and fathers leave you with

    sometimes I fall momentarily

    back to that young man

    who chased cum laude degrees

    through half my life

    and still I feel those cops

    and that word that they didn't

    even have to say

    like I can imagine

    her mother often did