Concierge duties

 It’s 6 am in the kitchen, I pour coffee 

when from the dark the thin boy appears

and thrusts his iPhone under my nose.

Look! I just threw up!

I see the photo, a green blob floating in the toilet.

For a better look, my head leans in 

& the little redhead’s voice 

chirps from the bowels of his phone 

where she now seems to live:

You ok, babe?

The boy’s brown orbs grab mine.

You understand, right?

I can’t go to school?

Believe him or not believe him? 

I don’t know anymore.

Two years ago he wouldn’t tell a lie even 

when I demanded one:

Tell your uncle you enjoyed his visit! 

Say it!

The shrink tells me, 

You can’t change him.

So make childhood a safe time.

Resigned, I nod.

I’ll get you a covid test.

My coffee turns cold as I record VM's for the school, 

his counselor, his shrink.

Next I google, Buy a rapid test near me,

write a list: apple juice, clear soup, tylenol.

My friend texts, See you at the trail. 

Wait! I text back. 

Running late: Concierge duties.

The little redhead is pregnant.

Her test kit results 

all over instagram with

shoplifted baby clothes.

She dances 

like a cheerleader for 

a home run 

& my head the ball crushed 

against a wall.  

Our boy smiles when I ask, 

It‘s true?

What rays from his eyes is 

his quick beating heart,

this careless joy. 

But I smother my voice 

so not to 

frighten him into silence.

I approach 

as I would a fawn in a trap 

so he will not dart 

but keep on talking.

You are only 15.

He says he’ll leave school, 

find work for his hands which still look small, 

but nails bitten down, 

clutching his phone where she waits, 

as if that phone were all that keeps his blood flowing.  

And a feeling comes over me, as if 

he had just set fire to every one of his childhood photos; 

the past seeming 

now a myth—our boy 

a soul possessed. 

A new incarnation 

has introduced himself. 

He's not coming back without her

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.