Baiting Alligators

There's an alligator wading
the rasped raft of my name
in the desperate depths of the hall.
Questions smear themselves
thick and sticky like syrup
on the tip of my tongue.
Momma, I almost remember,
I almost remember, I almost--

slipped like smoke across the dark.
Grayscale curves hug the filter
of his lit Marlboro Smooth.
He drags deep a cruel calm
I can see in the crooks of his cracked elbows,
the clench of his clawed hands
and Momma, you warned me
that monsters like him are nightmares to love,
but I think he could change,
I think I could make him, I think we might--

redistribute the weight of these words
and swallow.  There's steel in the slits
of his anger and he blinks, a heartbeat,
a timekeep, a threat.  Momma,
I'm sorry if I'm letting you down.
You always told me not to swim after dark,
not to trust men who smile like sharks,
but it's close to midnight and he's gesturing slow
and right now the water feels fine.