What About the Kid?
Sherrill Alesiak

Though I wasn’t prone
to behave—what?
mischievously?
the hood was sewn to my tan jacket,

Mother forbidding its covering
as I walked from
Von Steuben playground
during organdy dusk

when the fragrance of
scuffed-up dust from
swings and slides came
alive like filmy spirits

stashed in my pockets
my jeans, my socks—
anywhere—
but my hood.
.
Blame the hood itself?
With potential
to unfold
into a pocket of
protection and Franciscan piety.

Blame the pedal?
Grinding out the cacophonous rhythm
of the Singer rivaling my hi-fi barely
blaring Elvis or Ricky or Frankie.
And winning. Always winning.

Blame the tension set at zero?
Tightening each stitch
to avert a smidgen
of little-finger curiosity
craving to crawl through.


Blame the needle itself?
Puncturing the once-inflatable hood
with stitches written in tiny,
tight dashes, a Morse code for Mother
she alone could unravel.

Blame the thread?
Matching the hood perfectly.
She suspected no one would notice
while I advertised this now-collar
the size of the moon
under a cold canopy of branches.

Is it too late to blame
the spirits possessing her?
She now cannot recount
a thread of my childhood
as I patch facts of my life
onto the remnant of her mind.

During each visit to the home,
senseless, I still offer this prayer:
that she’s dying to release it,
see what’s inside.

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