Sometimes a Prison Moment

it could be something small,
a window crashing too loudly,
a piece of fish lodged
against the back
of the ice chest; these moments
clasp muscles tight,
make the bedsprings hard,
the sound of mother’s feet
cuddling the rug
as if they’d strangle moments
from the crib.

the bars seem wider than
remembered,
each wooden slat piercing
concrete then arcing
to
ceilings, our fingers pushing
through openings, grasping for air,
but breezes fail us,
lifting dust bunnies
and tiger lily petals
from the floor and
tossing them lightly on footstools.

after, no one talks;
how could they?
these hints of hopelessness
are rated adult; only those
older might see these shadows,
only our father
might lift us up,
over the slats and into
his strong, factory arms,
more used to gears,
pulleys and grease,
than baby’s bottoms
swathed in Vaseline.