There was something about the way she wore a
black Marlboro and gray remorse as a uniform.
I would have hit her too—
Her hair is rotting road kill—delusive, disowned, and
dissolved. There’s no clock because time is a
dirty, city drifter. I would love her differently if
she
wasn’t my father’s sister. There’s a peeling, brown
leather chair in the corner—the apartment air is as
thick
as the book of her mistakes. A fly hovers her head.
How could she be so selfish?
Alcohol is in her bloodstream like a retired man
sits in a hot tub. There’s a leased car key in her
pocket.
I can see every bone—they’re yellow like her teeth.
She tells me she has a third interview as her son
slams the
door in revolt. I sip my water like its common sense
and this place is squeezing me dry. She’s crying.
There’s not a five dollar bill to her name.
How can you pity the ones who never learned?
At 19, I’m a robin and she’s a 42 year old nestling—
not yet ready to care for herself.
I hold her hand and she tenses at the police lights.
Don’t give up—
“I have run. I have crawled. I have scaled these
city walls…
but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
