Odessa, AR

When his mother gave away her son, time didn’t stop.

If it had she would have stayed
Thin hipped, thirteen,
Leaning on the doorframe.

She would still be
watching the arid expansiveness
the determined trees
And the moths that abandoned
their fuzz on her hands.

The orphan stop light
Would hang, mid-swing, always red,
Still bleeding into their side of town.

She wouldn’t have turned around,
Gone deeper into the house,
Gotten ready for work.