Nocturne
i.
My son wanted all evening all evenings
in fall to sit with me on the porch. He wanted
a bubble bath wanted to make Uno cards
from scratch though I was so tired wanted
pistachio pudding without the nuts. Snakes
and ladders popcorn each unconsummated
kernel accounted for and time on the stove clock
the microwave clock daring to be different
squared. Then when it was time he wanted
to sit on the porch lay his head in my lap kick
pillows off the futon he broke. I don’t remember
what I wanted. I remember the weight of him
his head on my stomach a pregnancy’s ghost
and us rising and falling together like ship and sea.
ii.
2:35 a.m. a young man screams in the street
plaintive enunciated “Ouch!” an icicle piercing
the top of my head. Ouchouch help help
Mom helphelp oh ouch oh MOM MOM
Where is my son is the Buick out front did he make it
home has he been shot stabbed cupping his own intestines
did he not pay the wrong person has he done it himself
with the sword on his wall the sword on his wall
would I recognize the signs would I recognize his voice
in pain has he finally done it. I descend nightgown white
grope through the oily dark slick live oak leaves burying
my bare feet. The street is dead empty. The street is dead
empty. Call for an ambulance they send police. Somewhere
at all times a dying man is crying for his mother.
iii.
Finally, when I can’t sleep, I circle back
to the way my son circled those bronze statues
life-size abolitionists in the public square.
I remember it so clean. The way he was when he was.
Reaching for their hands, eyes of liquid searching
their faces to find permission. One small woman,
statue, I have to correct myself, so lifelike was her hair
in motherly bun. Hands long and fretted with veins
like mine he caressed. Gazing up. His knuckle divots
already fleeting, his innocence a labor under every nail
the crescent moons of paint, all those river rocks turned
to turtles, snails I helped him see. Of all the moments
I took pictures, this one I did not. Of all the moments
this is the one I call upon, tenderly, tenderly in the night.
Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and musician in Petersburg, Virginia. Recent work can be found in Invisible City, New Flash Fiction Review, Atlas & Alice, The Normal School, Pidgeonholes, Litro, Heavy Feather Review and elsewhere. Say hello on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/.