By Ona Gritz

A third of the week,
my son lays on sheets
I've never touched
in an apartment
with night creaks
I haven't slept through.
He comes home
with a foreign smell.
Smoke in his hair.
From his pores, spices
of unfamiliar food.
After his bath,
I dress him in clothes
fresh from the wash, ask
what he did this weekend.
Always, he shrugs
and says, "Nothing."
But it isn't true.
I've seen photos
of my boy in playgrounds
I don't recognize,
at backyard parties
with children
whose names I don't know.

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