Joys and Concerns
Please pray for our son in prison
we want to say
sitting in our pew
listening to others
sure our words will collapse
in our own little cell.
But when we kneel
our words escape
in blue jumpsuits
entering everyone’s ears
and whispering.
When Lucille Clifton Rode the Elevator
with me, I scanned my mail
and found an envelope
addressed to her.
Oh, I like surprises
she said.
She opened it and unfolded
one of her poems
smeared with excrement,
then handed it to me.
Don’t give it any power
she said.
I still see light drain from her face.
