The summer before college
My mother invited me to her house for tea,
she said,
but I know she only drinks whiskey.
My tires hit the gravel,
sliding down the narrow driveway.
The whirlpool in my stomach spinning,
something more than tea is waiting,
I know
I turn my key in the doorknob,
almost surprised it still fits.
I call her name,
I haven’t said “mom” since the day I left.
No response echoes back,
but I know where she’ll be.
I step onto the back porch
and there a cigarette,
circling fumes escaping its head.
At first, I think,
nothing has changed
but my eyes travel down.
Her growing belly,
stretching out from her blouse,
contrasting the rest of her slim frame.
“She’s the size of an avocado”
I watch a ring of smoke.
“I’m due in February”
I remain frozen, entranced.
“She’ll be named after your grandmother”
Her eyes beg for some response.
All I can find is the cigarette,
Watching as she takes another puff
Another child born with lungs of ash
She draws another breath
