Near Nightfall

The phone ringing stops everything and the cold voice
draws a body in white chalk—
says your son has been at the precinct since last night.

Before you leave the house, you've smoked four cigarettes
and as you drive, smoke
drifts into your eyes.
The house lights were already on and his bedroom door

a sliver of light that crossed you
when
your foot pushed it open. His absence was a question:
the Newports left unopened in your purse for years. For a moment

you almost expected to find him,
his voice barely above a whisper. The television
hummed;
it made the door an invite—but he is gone,

and you see yesterday's clothes on the floor,
books, video games and sneakers
on the bed, under the bed. He is not on the bed,

phone to his ear as usual—the door is still open.
It's Sunday and there's
no reason for his absence. Against the shadows,
hints of your laughter:

his first word was "no,"
a picture with Orioles cap on big enough
for his father,
and his face etched with red tracings of Kool-Aid.

He needs to know
you expected him home, and why smoke from a Newport
leaves the taste of metal
in your mouth.

A Head Full of Feathers

There is a drowned man who
will tell everything, his head
buried in a sentence, his head full
of feathers and nothing, of flowers
and fists, the broken backs men hide
with bed covers, the lies wrapped
in dust balls, and what happens when
no one is looking.
In the middle of the silence, before
he speaks, is your chance. Walk away.
There is nothing good in his words:
only stories of what happens
when men have power in the dark.