the worst part about the video call to her son in prison --
 
not the little box at the bottom of the screen with numbers
flashing elapsed call time along with his legal name,
Rudy James, instead of RJ, the name his family called him —
 
not that number 1865321 — not how his face flattened in
shades of grey on her laptop clutched to her belly — not
the frayed edge of the collar of his jumpsuit or his bad
 
acne that he used to get treated when he was
covered by his mama’s insurance — not the split-
second delay between his lips moving and his voice —
 
not that he held his limp arm over his face to show
how he couldn’t move his thumb since the bullet meant
for his heart had missed — and not even his pulled
 
smile when he told her about the one who kept
saying your skin looks fresh and milky white — no — the
worst part — at the exact second of the 20-minute mark --
 
her eyes homed to his open mouth and his voice not yet
sounding — BEEP — blank screen blank screen blank

---

Stacy Pendergrast’s poetry has appeared in many journals including bottle rockets, Still: A Journal, and Fourth River. She is working on a memoir as well as a poetry collection documenting the story of a close friend and her son, who needs addiction treatment and instead is suffering in prison. Stacy has taught students from preschool through college. Find her teaching ideas and writing at <stacypendergrast.com>.

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