Visiting My Baby Brother At The Beaufort County Detention Center On October 15, 2011

Mom sat poised and calm in the burgundy plastic chair
holding a list of topics to talk about in her left hand,
the blue pay phone in her right, pressed gently to ear,
while she looked through the glass at her only son.

I was next to her, eyes filled and hands vibrating,
fidgeting with my necklace and blinking,
breathing slowly, deeply, in and out, fighting nausea.
Oh, Ryan. Why? Don’t be a follower, be a leader.

It scared me how so very lean he was, how tall.
The rough bright orange shirt and pants
made his normally cream-colored face white-washed,
and sallow. The guards had buzzed his head,
but not completely, leaving only a centimeter
of brown hair, remembrance of his wavy locks.

“Ryan, you have to remember to sign the release papers
on Monday so we can get your car back to Charleston.
And we put money in your account so you can buy
a calling card and some snacks. Or just calling cards.”

Tell him you love him Mom. Tell him he’s still your baby
and that this doesn’t matter. Tell him we’ll take him home.
Tell him you love him.

I kept hovering slightly over the chair and tugging
at the bottom, moving it closer to the concrete table
and Plexiglas. Closer to Ryan. I glanced alternately
from the crude drawings and words carved out
of the surface to my big little brother.

“Oh, and I paid forty dollars so you can get a Public Defender
sooner and hopefully to court a little faster. If you don’t hear
from one by Wednesday, you need to tell me ok?
It’s important.”

She is so much stronger than me. How is she so calm?
The list was a smart idea but I hope he remembers.
I’ll ask him when it’s my turn if he does.

“Are you ok, Ryan? You have things you need?
You’re safe?” He replied yes, he was alright,
he even had nickname from a guy named Country.
He said it was only his first time, and that was a good thing
because other guys had the number twenty-seven
on their armbands. Their twenty-seventh time.

I studied his body language and bare arms
as he spoke, looking for any marks or fear.
He seemed like himself and his arms were clear.
Accepting his answers, Mom said, "I love you Ryan.
You can talk to your sister for a bit now.”

I stood and switched chairs with her, took the large phone,
and scooting close again, I looked up at him and made faces
biting my lip, battling with the tears. “Hunter still goes
in your room at my house. He’ll go and sit and cry til I put him
up on the bed and pet him. He misses sitting with you.
And I miss you too. I get lonely on station days now
with no one to talk to but the dogs.”

I stare at the Love dug out of the white painted table,
the “O” just a vacant hole and my leg shakes.

We talk for a few minutes about useless things
and I laugh when I want to cry
until the guard comes back and taps on the door
to the small bricked room, and answers you
that yes, time is up. I hear it echo through the phone.

No! Don’t take him away! I only had ten minutes!
He’s my baby brother and we only have a lifetime.
Our time is precious. He needs me to stay…
I need him to stay.

“Ryan, I just want to hug you.” And my heart breaks
as he places his palm to the Plexiglas. I put mine up too,
and marvel at the sizes. I just want to reach through
and hold him here. “I love you Ryan. I love you.”

When he takes his hand down, Mom bangs on the window
and calls out. She wants the connection too.
Her heart breaks too. We say again that we love him,
and watch him go, before we turn towards our own door.

A Classmate Giving A Presentation

With the end of each sentence
she gestures grandly, waving her number two

pencil tip daringly close to my side,
holding the eraser like a sword handle

giving my imagination ideas of being impaled,
or at least stabbed,

leading to an embarrassing emergency call:
“Help! She’s been shish-kabobbed

by a centimeter of wood and lead!”
Could a pencil kill?

I’m sure its been done before
but that’s an unhappy thought.

How shocked would the class be
if I grabbed up my pen in defense

and began a combattre?
Maybe then she would not be so interested

in explaining riddles and their roots.