For My 21-Year-Old Son, Who Calls Me on The Day Roe V. Wade is Overturned

It’s not the ding of a text that comes in
but the trill of his ringtone—Landslide,
favorite song I refashioned into a lullaby,
every note a link on the chain of nights
that were ours alone, the childhood score
I sang on repeat that he no longer asks for.  

I don’t hesitate to answer, 
though we’ve been locked in battle
over boundaries and definitions, 
a ping-pong match of contranyms—

how fast means firmly affixed,
not just swift flight;

how buckle means fasten,
as well as collapse;

how bound means motionless, 
but also to propel forward.

His way. My way. 
The way I’m not ready 
to part ways. Yet, 
on this dirge of a day
the taut rope between us 
slackens and he calls 
to ask if I’m okay. 

I hear in his voice he knows 
I’m not, my rage fueled
by an arsenal of sorrow.
Momma, he says, 
I’m so sorry.

Momma, an old word 
for a younger version 
of each of us. Still 
enough of them 
in us to survive 
the inevitable cleave—                                                                              

we will hold together, 
even after we split apart.