Glass

I’ve time enough to pause beneath the oak tree and mourn that day
         Fingering the place where love had carved our initials, A + Z

I’ve time enough to rage at fate, to wash the taste of falling rain away
With tears, hot, and bourbon, neat, flowing down the hatch nice and easy
They open the gate, and I, fueled by liquid courage and simmering rage,
Walk in to see you for our weekly ritual of penance and expiation

I’ve time enough to linger in this feeling sorry for myself
         Doing it the way you taught me how, bottle to lip, face to table

I’ve time enough to wander through this darkening forest
Of insufficient apologies and veiled recriminations.  I am unable
To recapture the luster of my youth, the patina of truth,
And the 612 things that had made us previously inseparable

I’ve time enough to replay the moment, freeze-frame the instant
         Some beer.  A few glasses of sherry.  A deer.  The sound as glass shatters.

I’ve time enough to wonder if things could have been different
If I had been driving that night or one drink less… not that it matters
I am clutching the leather billfold for something to do with these hands
That in their shaking relive the moment that destroyed my world forever

I walk to the metal chair and wait for the guards to bring you over
         “Amelia, you came,” you say each time in that tone of silly surprise

As if every Friday did not bring me here to face you, never sober
But always, always aware of the tragedy that has made us reluctant allies.

“Hello mother,” I say, my voice choked with love.  I sit with you in silence
         As atonement, a form of self-flagellation for giving you the keys,

For calling you to pick us up.  I am too craven to do myself actual violence
So we sit silently until the guard taps me on the shoulder and it’s time to leave.