Footprint

Jimmy LaVon Berlin

Lying on the car seat
next to me is the front page 
of the Arizona Republic 
with the sketch of a woman, 
an artistic rendition in charcoal 
of a cadaver, in need of identification. 
There was some resemblance in the profile 
struggling to turn
and look me in the eye.
The body, a small collapsed white ghost,
discarded, naked, leaving its own slender footprint 
on the shoulder of the road facing
away from life, curling in on itself as the cold 
came on. And I thought
about calling the number, 
remembering the picture of you I paid
to have taken at JC Penny in Flagstaff
when you were five, and I noticed then 
how your lavender eyes didn’t match
a single person in our family tree,
but they matched the mother-of-pearl buttons 
and the ruffles on your dress.

And then four years ago, that last 
regret mailed to Perryville
spidering out my denial,
when you were twenty-five
and I offered no sanctuary. I can’t,   
I wrote. Don’t put my name down,
don’t promise the parole board. I sent 
this knowing you had no place to go,
knowing you could not stop your broken 
mouth, your obscenities, knowing
you would eat my treading life 
with a serrated blade, seduce my son, 
lie and steal, take what was left
of my hard-earned peace of mind, 
forcing it in rage down 
the throat of a meat grinder.

So today I force myself
past the inability to breathe 
and pull over. I leave my beat-up, 
ancient Toyota idling out
the entire grizzled vocabulary of anxiety 
while I stand holding the greasy arm 
of a pay phone to my cheek, making 
an appointment to view the body,
remembering how at thirteen 
I thought no one so pretty, no one 
so perfect would ever have
the problems I had, would ever 
need someone like me. 

Perryville Visiting Food Day

Jimmy LaVon Berlin

Don’t bring spaghetti;
they’ll dump it out 
and poke through it
with a pencil. Anything 
you can zip lock in clear plastic 
so they can roll it around 
and look for contraband 
is good. 
There is a camaraderie among people
waiting in line to visit relatives in prison. 
Some of us looking for any excuse 
to share, 
through osmosis, our sugary belief 
in rehabilitation. We’re all here 
doing something we probably 
will not mention 
to our supervisors on Monday.
We like to break the ice 
with the weather or directions
to the nearby department store, 
in case of a major crisis, like 
inappropriate attire. 
We’re all here because of blood,
some familial song, or maybe
just the refrain from a chorus
running through our veins. 
Standing in line to sign in,
resigned to the relentless shuffle 
of stoic men, small antsy children
turning out their pockets,
handing over belts.
A few brothers, sisters,
and mothers, of course,
standing in formation to let the guard
walk the German Shepherd 
up and down the line, 
our palms pressed flat 
to the chain link fence.

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