What Can Be Known
The sex offender turns his head so far left
cameras capture only the cords of his neck,
tight as harp strings.
Say: Hanging in there while windows
grow clouds and clock hands hesitate.
I trade subway cars and study shoes.
Some other night, rather than Nevermore.
When I ask the children to write about a day
when only the impossible happens, one girl
looks at me as if I should know better, and I should.
Look beyond the shadow that hovers over yours.
Trees lean and hook their branches
through slots of the fire escape.
I’ll be right back, cupping your dog’s face.
Say: Things will get better now as if you mean it.
The girl writes: I was looking at the sky
over and over until there is no white space left on her paper.
About the Author
Jocelyn Casey-Whiteman is a recipient of a New York Chapbook Fellowship from the Poetry Society of America, and her chapbook, Lure, will be published next year.
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