Check-in: Tomoka Correctional Institution

His letter said, Get there early.

The line is long. Wait.

Stop to watch the steam rise from the metal teeth

of the razor wire on the fence, like breath.

Wives check their makeup

as they pace. Fathers in dirty jeans

smoke cigarettes to bare knuckles.

A mother in a headscarf holds a child

whose face you can’t see. She sees you

watching and says, “She buries herself

like the dead.”

His letter said, Only bring what you need.

Place your clear plastic bag on the table.

Identify the contents one item at a time:

State of Florida driver’s license,

two twenty-dollar bills.

Ma’am, do you have a firearm,

drugs or drug-related paraphernalia,

anything that could be used as a weapon

by an inmate at any time?

You have the memory

of your older brother’s nineteen-year-old face,

the lit match of your collective anger,

your shared father’s close-set eyes and easy smile,

a twenty-five-year-old bruise

in your hand from the last time

you touched him.

When instructed, follow

the C.O. into a sterile room. Raise your hands

to allow her gloved hand under the folds

of your sagging breasts.

While you wait, close your eyes:

inside you is a prison full of brothers, waiting

to touch your face, to tell you in person,

It wasn’t our fault.