in the dungeon with my mom

i take my mom to the old jail house.
i am trying to tell her i'm dead.
instead, we walk from room to room
& listen to the tour guide explain
that once this structure was a face.
people sat on teeth. men were hung
in the throat. the fence was made high
so no one could find out what
the outside world was crying about.
two-way mirrors. a juke box without
any music. the warden lived above
the cells. his house has curtains 
& smells like eyelashes. my mother 
& i have bad knees. we want to sit
but there is no where to sit. it is covid times
which is to say, it is when people
briefly worried about whether or not
they killed one another. we wore masks.
the face did or did not have eyes.
my mother hesitated before following
the tour guide
into the dungeon. there are no metaphors
to describe where the sun goes 
to molt. stone walls. choking words. 
i almost tell her. i almost say,
"your child has moved on & is now
just a collection of birds trying to do
the work of a child." instead, i hold
onto the hem of her shirt
as if i am a child. as if the darkness
is a burst pupil. the tour guide explains
how blood flowed down into the dungeon.
how, here, the ghosts nested
& ate what they could. knuckles 
& salamanders & spiders. 
briefly, the tour guide turned off
the light. the deepest dark
i've ever seen. i loved it. i imagined
spending the rest of my life
in that shadow. knowing one another
only by touch & question,
"is that you?" this is what 
my mother asks, "is that you?"