CALL ME BELOVED

I dream about back seat conversations
we’ll never have, like when I was twelve
and clutching LEGO sets like talismans
my consolation prize for enduring more
rage than any child should see inside an
afternoon – dad always preferred paying
cash for love, so he screeched into park
and stepped out for an ATM; it was just
you and I, mom. The car always felt like
a prison, the midday sunbeams like hot
interrogation lamps, the seats groaning
as that sad rictus grin twisted out from
your headrest – you took a breath & said
I hope you remember how it feels to get
everything that you’ve ever wanted – then
snapped back around, like it wasn’t real,
like it all never happened, sad daydream,
like you didn’t just rip a hole in my heart
that drafts blow through while I sleep –
I dream about backseats, now, at night –
a captive passenger being carried down
winding roads which never lead to home