thirty days left wondering
where you are
who you’re with
what you’re doing
are you fed
are you clothed
with a roof over your head?
it’s so quiet
usually by now in the month you need money
by now in the month we’ve gotten a call or a concerned message
about you
(tales of violence, tales of misfortune, but reassuringly tales of you)
from someone else
thirty days of telling myself
that you’re the parent, not me
if he wanted to, he would
the echo of the inaction wrapping itself around my bones
anchoring me in pain and in place
more than thirty days of asking myself,
is it addiction? is it your mental health? are you circling the drain?
thirty days in jail shouldn’t make me hopeful
shouldn’t make me feel a glimmer
that maybe you now have thirty days of sobriety
maybe you now have thirty days of sanity because you’ve had thirty days of meds
searching arrest records for signs of life is part of the new routine