The women at the prison talk to each
Other about their boyfriends outside,
About their children’s fathers, about
The children themselves, who would
Now be unrecognizable except
For a photograph or a Christmas card
Several years old. The boyfriends
Wait for them. The children, no longer
Children, wait for them, receive emails
Describing Thanksgiving or how
They used to watch the news
Every morning before someone stole
The remote or before a guard took away
The remote to punish someone who
Fought with someone else over what
Show to watch. Whichever way it
Happened, the remote is gone, and
No one can get another even though
If they were on the outside they could
Have one delivered the next morning.
Some of the women will get out soon,
Get back to family, boyfriends,
The grown-up children. They may
Even see the ones who enlisted, who
Come back home on leave, in camo
Fatigues, with a duffle bag on one
Shoulder and with stories they don’t
Want to tell. Some of the women lost
Their children to adoption
And don’t know where they are
Or who they’ve become. If these
Women write letters, they don’t know
Where to send them or what name to
Put on the envelope. On the outside,
The boyfriends are waiting, going
To work in cars they saved to buy,
Avoiding trouble, and speaking
Respectfully to police and neighbors,
And the grown-up children are
Waiting too, even if they only wait
For a woman in an old photograph,
Someone with short hair, young
And tough, who always spoke
Her mind, got in trouble, angered
Her parents and the minister who’d
Baptized her when she was still
Wrapped in a blanket. The grown-up
Children miss what they don’t
Remember. The women miss what
They want to remember.
Published in The High Window, Dec. 13, 2025
