Poetry By Colleen Ovelman
a dandelion, at the Mobil, on a Friday afternoon
I watch my youngest son check the pressure
on the tires of his car
he attaches the nozzle, his grey eyes
intent only on the gauge
making sure it reaches the exact
pounds per square inch
imagine, a satellite leaving its orbit
hurtling towards earth and
landing squarely
in your care
his childhood
an unskippable cutscene—
a storyline we can't escape—
sure, there were laughs, even this morning
I saw him laugh a hands-off-the-handlebars-
skinned-knees kind of laugh
full of teeth and freedom, the way his brother
used to laugh
but there have been so many unspeakable
things I have had to tell him
so many mornings when I have taken
a boot heel to his youth
sometimes, as he stands above me
in the shape of a man, I forget
how to talk to him
but here in the gas station parking lot
on his knees, air compressor held
in the milky curve of his fingers
nails bitten to nubs
I can feel the weight of him, asleep
on my back
I stare deep into the crown of his head
happily failed by words—
what a feat this is
what a feat
last night at Al'S
like a child blindfolded and spun in circles
arms outstretched, donkey tail in hand
you jab at the air desperately feeling
not for the end of the donkey where the tail
belongs, not even for the donkey
but for the wall or for a body, any body
to make some sense of where you are
you grasp for anything that’s left
search for any unearthed gem
if you’re lucky his friends will tell you stories
before they disappear into their own lives
if you’re lucky someone will post a video
of your son and his friends
eating french fries at Al’s
laughing like this is any night
like this is the best night
they will (ever) have
