On May 1, 2022
the boy of 15 meets online
a dark-haired girl of 14
with eye lashes black and spindly as spider legs
& the two video-chat nonstop.
Their murmurs fill the night.
It is 1 then 3 then 5 AM.
What is most shocking--
He is talking again!
The boy imprisoned two years
in his bedroom by a virus
had come to resemble that silent lonely ghost
who bursts into TV as a mass killer.
And in his new voice there are the high notes
of merriment
& the low notes of secrets being shared.
And then on the morning of May 3, the dark-haired girl
is sitting on his bed. Panic crossing all our faces
when I step into his room,
accelerating when his chest pushes against the door
and mine thumping and pushing back.
In silence they grab their backpacks,
synchronized motions as if they had planned this moment
and like thieves
run from the house.
I do not hear from him again for three weeks.
Waiting, I sweep up his room—condom wrappers, chip bags,
cookie bits—change the bedding and wash what is in his hamper.
I stare at a pink thong and a padded red bra.
It hits me hard.
On May 24, he texts,
I will never come home without her.
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