Stretch Marks and Ash
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 turn my key in the doorknob,
surprised it still fits.
I call her name;
I haven’t said “mom” since the day I left.
Silence echoes back,
but I know where she’ll be.
I step onto the back porch
and there a cigarette floats
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 see is the cigarette.
Another child born with lungs of ash
She draws another breath.
Sunbathing in Venice
.
Clouds have never moved
more quickly than here
under the blaze.
A child’s laugh has never fallen
on softer ears than mine, now.
I watch her spoon pasta,
painting red her lace bib.
The water never cooler,
as condensation on a glass
of spiked lemonade.
Stone never felt refreshing
on bare feet, as here in this city.
And I miss you.
Your hands were rough,
But they made sturdy dreamcatchers,
pointing out shapes in the clouds.
I imagine the father you would have made,
better than mine, I now know.
But I didn’t want two girls and a boy,
even if I could’ve given them to you.
Our martini nights so quickly turned
sour, like the salted limes on glass,
It’s funny how we called it passion.