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.

Coach sits across from her,

younger than most—he retired

right into this Alzheimer’s facility.

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.

Coach reaches

for my mother’s cup.

Juice hardly seems worth an altercation.

Before I can intervene—

I’m bad at intervening—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—

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.