The Fargo Jail
We move like ghosts from the tiny waiting
room
through a kind of fissure in the wall
to a narrow string of visiting stalls.
Each has a viewing window and a narrow
ledge
just high enough to make leaning in uncomfortable.
The telephone’s short cord seems to
wrestle and
pull me to the side of the booth, but when
I sit down
on my side of the murky glass, I cradle the
phone
like an infant in the crook of my elbow
and smile.
I can’t see my reflection in the pane, except
that
the gold rims of my glasses are reflected
exactly
around your eyes and I seem to be looking
at both of us.
I ask if you remember how you used to grab
my glasses,
go parading around the house, and make
faces at yourself
in the bathroom mirror. You laugh, and for
a while
we manage to forego what would have kept
us silent.
After twenty minutes, we file out. We pass
a one-way
bullet-proof glass that reaches from
counter to ceiling
and buries our images deep within it. I
try hard to make out
my own, hoping to discern a vital truth
before I leave.
Allen Helmstetter
Allen Helmstetter lives in rural Minnesota. He loves the rivers, woods, and fields there, and after hiking the trails is often inspired to write about the relationship between nature and the human condition. He has been published in North Coast Review and forthcoming in Willawaw Journal.