The lady at the front desk

has an accent I can’t place.

Bright red dyed hair glows

like something radioactive.

She scolds the fact that I am on time;

early is the only acceptable number.

Words spit like machine gun fire –

bullet proof glass protects her from reprisal.

Woman number two attacks, actually

leaves her booth to eviscerate my daughter’s wardrobe.

My glare the only weapon I have;

she knows she has all the power.

Our true crime –

being related to my son.

He awaits our visit behind a clear wall,

his voice distant through the jailhouse phone.

He rolls his eyes as I explain the

reason his sister cannot visit.

Shorts too short, probably influenced

by the blue hair and tattoos.

We talk openly of the evil guards,

hope they’re listening in.

Corruption abounds, secret rules,

a cesspool of human indecency.

We wax simplistic on the meaning of life

and whether or not God sends dreams.

Black holes, the beginning of time,

alternate realities, expansion of the universe.

The mother in me wonders if other mothers

talk of such things when they visit their sons in jail.

A piece of trash sits on the floor

unmoved since my visit last week.

Even the air is oppressive,

cold hard metal the most comfort offered.

Another mother and I

ride the elevator down to the ground.

We talk like old friends of everything

except our sons, guilty with relief of leaving.

The fluorescent red-head plops my license into the metal indention

so no actual human interaction has to occur.

No eye contact, no goodbye, no apology

for making a horrible situation even worse.

The workers look miserable, underpaid, imprisoned

within the same walls as the people they guard.

My daughter posts a selfie as she flips off the jail –

and the women who cannot see her from the safety of outside.

I am irritated by her silent vulgar rebellion,

and maybe a little proud that she is my daughter.

-Rebekah J. Marshall