Mom puts the plate
in front of me
but I am too hungry
for biscuits
to see her
as anything
but the bringer of food
the washer
the dryer
the back of the house
whether she smiles
as she pours
the coffee or gravy
or turns to cry
I never see her
wipe her hands
hang the towels
exhale with a sigh
too much on her plate
till lunch
Too little
to sit at the grown-ups table,
I was shooed away
when the cards
came out.
Listening
at the grate,
his muffled
anger
drifted up thick
on cigarette
smoke.
We were both
annoyed,
cheated
out of what we
desired.
But little
did I know then,
born the child
of a drunkard,
I had already
been dealt
the worst
of hands.
In the tic
when his body
seized,
his pocket watch
fell
shattering
the spinning lies
he covered
now abruptly
vulnerable.
Regardless
of how his hands
flailed,
he was unable
to remember
his metronome
of good
or bad.
A shard
of himself
as he
clocked out.
Her hollowed skin
is potholed
on old bulging
veins,
and when she
wrings her hands,
she breathes
in deep.
Her slow exhale
drips out
every secret
dream
she had.
Till all she is –
is a concave
bowl.
And if only
plants
could thrive
without sun,
she might have
need
for one.
His father built him a swing set
imagining dirty hands
on the sturdy chains,
worn tennis to the sky.
Laughter.
But a season has passed
with new buds
giving a reason to
his tears.
How does a boy
climb closer to his mother
when she is in heaven
and he has his foot
on the last board?
I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.
It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.
I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.