Prodigal Glass
Nico Pablo
I recognize the malleability of glass
from a window
when the car pulls out of absolute
darkness and leaves
the sickly pastel paint
of these rented rooms
that fail to mimic their floral namesakes.
The man beside me pulls the stick
shift down and we hurtle
through the night.
Mother, is this how you expelled me
from your womb? Hand over prayer
over control, before letting go,
tasting the future of loss
as you brought me
to the light?
Now I span latitudes
in this journey,
cross rivers into slums,
enter side streets to escape
sight and traffic.
Mother, do not learn this city.
You will not bear the view
of me splayed,
threadbare and thin,
across the hands of a stranger.
Only when silica and shadow meet,
do I understand my reflection
in this prodigal glass.
Only when I am pinned between
another weight and mattress
do I understand lightness.
Only when I am completely shed,
breath on a nape,
do I unburden pleasure.
But tonight, when I glance
outside the car window,
I remain unchanged
while the trees outside
bow to the rushing wind.
Maybe they recognize return
even before we do.
Mother, I can see you
in the face a rosary bead,
like a tear.
Rest, I am going home to you
tonight.
