Poetry By Barbara Krasner

John Winkelman CC




Cut

In the hours before, I snipped magazine pictures,
pasted them on scrapbook paper with liquid glue.
In the hours before, I washed the dishes
knowing it would be my son’s last night at home.
In the hours before, I prayed he’d be all right.
That we’d both be all right.
In the hours before, I kept listening for his TV,
kept watching the clock. I cursed his girlfriend
who taught him how to self-mutilate,
introduced him to Coricidin and sex. 

In the hours during, two burly men tapped
on my front door. They stormed past me,
up the stairs, grabbed my groggy son. 
In the hours during, they promised me 
I could say goodbye.
They pushed him out the door
without word. Herded him, handcuffed, 
into the backseat of their Crown Vic.
The car careened down the street
in the wee morning.

In the hours after, I could not stop crying.
I forgot how to get to my sister’s house.
I called my mother and we both cried.
In the hours after, I prayed I did the right thing.
In the hours after, I would have to repair 
the door where his girlfriend cut her wrists,
smeared her blood. In the hours after, 
I pulled on a flannel nightgown
and listened to the silence.

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Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet. Recent publications include Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press), The Wanderers (Shanti Arts), and the forthcoming Memory Collector (Kelsay Books) and The Appropriation of Brueghel (Shanti Arts).
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