Poem 18 of 30

There is

No room

For me

To be tired of visiting you.

The slow release and crawl of each door forbids escape.

Father I cannot abduct you.

Uncle I cannot purchase your freedom.

The drive is always long.

(Never as long as the years.)

Sometimes there is a glass that divides us.

Sometimes your wrists are tethered to your waist.

Sometimes a corrections officer is petty and will deny me a visit.

Urban men caged in rural places.

Young turned old under

“You can only piss at this time.

And eat this thing.

And walk this way.”

I know that I must prepare you for the undaughter I have become in your absence.

I know that each visit lends you a piece of myself.

And I get pieces of you too.


© 2018 by Miya Upshur Williams

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