By Denise Duhamel
The man on his cell says he wants a family tree
tattooed on his back. So you’re sure you can
make me a tree? (Pause.) Good. I want the trunk
to come up my back with branches
over my shoulder, my two kids
on my chest, right below my collarbones.
Though I don’t know it yet, my mother
will die next month. I’m soon to become
the matriarch of my family. My surname
will die out with me. The man, already
tattooed with flowers on his arms, says
I need it fast. It can’t look lopsided.
I need to show the judge. That bitch
keeps me in court, trying to take my kids.