Six months, two weeks, six days. They let you out Black August.
Five minutes every Sunday I hear you say “Mama.”
Three visits, line up outside with others’ families.
Two hours, dominoes and uno. No hugs allowed.
One last visit, masks required. You still caught covid.
Three weeks quarantine. Unlimited phone calls. You said
Nine youth had covid nineteen. Now twenty youth in the
One gym. You became more and more anxious. “I’ll be here
Fo(u)rever, mama. They don’t care about us.” I know.
Twelve years old, jail food. Thirteen years old, State-run food.
Two home cooked meals in, “This tastes better than jail.”
One night you asked to wash faces side by side. Brush teeth.
One boy, thirteen. One mama. Sleep now, little brown boy.