In the convicted evening I am a victor struck loose and restless,
creeping for the unlocked window.
The family inside at the dinner table is mine.
Listening to the escape story on the radio, my mother's hand freezes
in the air halfway to her mouth.
She realizes it's me they're talking about.
Lightning by lightning the minute before thunder.
Streets as empty as a beach before rain.
My hand on the cold glass.
Car alarm, tornado warning, catastrophe.
Who remembers the criminal son, free of the labyrinth and still
unsought, unthought of.
Oh when will the streetlamps blink out so my father can appear furtive
at the door and beckon me furiously in.
Copyright © 2011 by Kazim Ali. Used with permission of the author.