Hell-bent​

I hear the fear in my mother’s click of her—identified “evangelical”—tongue
            on the other side—distance
 
not great enough to feel her “I’m so disappointed” thoughts. Can I disappear,
            dodge my father’s ongoing questions, wonderings (“for your good”)?
 
I feel the “crowd of witnesses”, the ranks of parents, their concern a conversation
            to persuade, save.
 
I see and empathize with all they think, believe, feel with all the earnestness accompanied
            by hand gestures of capitalized italic sounds. They are
 
Protecting
Loving
Drawing
 
daughters and sons—babies still really—“into the kingdom”
            away “from the roads that lead to hell”. As much
 
as they know, learned, believed with all the intensity thrown
            from the driver’s seat to my corner far far far
 
far in the back right where I watch red and yellow
            blink and refract in the rain, wishing the neon lights of PDX to appear.

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D LARISSA PETERS
​grew up in Indonesia and has been somewhat of a nomad. After meandering around the East Coast for more than 10 years, she moved to California—in the middle of a pandemic. Her most recent poems have appeared in​ Makarelle, Flora Fiction, Samjoko Magazine and has a few forthcoming pieces.

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