my history classmates talk about prison
like a distant idea
I do not tell them about the cold chairs in the prison waiting room
that have cold arm rests perfect for gripping with white knuckles
and sharp teeth waiting to kill
who is supposed to be my mother.
on a fieldtrip to the men's county jail
the teachers tell the girls
not to wear tight clothes or makeup when they see the inmates.
like we don't want to provoke the animals
buried deep in their minds.
like they are not humans.
like it is our fault.
it is not my fault!
I love her.
they think less of her now.
I do not tell them about seeing her in the same shirt
that I wore to school the week before when I was seven.
I do not tell them about the vodka bottle I found
in the navy blue nightstand next to her side of the bed when I was 14
rolling around like it was trying to flatten out her mistakes.