from his friend’s house, where they were filming

a movie starring my son in a love triangle.

My son, fifteen, has never been in a love right angle,

or even a love straight line, as far as I know.

He stopped talking two years ago—

to me, I mean. I got this secondhand from a street informant

I’ll refer to here by her code name, Little Sister.

A warm night, windows rolled down—my cheap car

requires physical cranking. (Not even a CD player!)

Purchased in 2003 when he was ten and still kissed me goodnight

and may even have held my hand while we watched

old movies. (No cable TV either!) Yesterday

he made me kill a giant bug, and I briefly saw

that ten-year-old again.

Full moon—I could see him looking up at it,

following it as I turned and we lost it to the trees.

September, but moist like August. I ached

for a few soft words between us in that silence.

On a sidewalk near the park a young man sat,

face in hands, a friend standing helpless above him.

I slowed down. What’s that guy doing? I said aloud.

Is he Okay?

I see him too, my son said.

As the friend helped the man

to his feet, I sped on.

My son hummed an old song about the moon

that I didn’t know he knew. My son, the star

of a movie I’ll never see. I just get

these vague coming attractions.

I caught him in a lie or two this week.

Every exchange a house of cards—all it takes

is a deep sigh, and they come tumbling down.

I’d have hummed along with him,

but I didn’t want him to stop.

“Last Night I Drove My Son Home” by Jim Daniels from Apology to the Moon. © Bat Cat Press, 2015. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)