1455

something about a fire

burning.

something something.

something about whiskey

and ice cream.

Something.

Something.

Something

Until it means

something.

That’s

Something.

Something.

Something.

Something.

It’s so much easier

putting the thoughts of

small backs on paper than

the image of my mother

working in the kitchen

a grey apron wrapped

around her

the way she raises her

index finger to her lips

when she laughs hard enough

and I think

it’s all hot knives

when she places a rusted

tin container on the bed

photos of us making the

same face at the zoo

my teeth and lips

curled and shining

like hers

and I think

something.

Hot knives.

So much easier to

write about old loves

the big loves

recent loves

the loves that made me

a fool

holding memories

tight between the ribs

/the night she climbed

across the center console

and sat in my lap

the seat not going

far enough back

her legs at my chest

and her hands in my hair

gave up

and when she came inside

said she couldn’t stay

and cried herself to sleep

over something

she couldn’t keep/

whiskey and ice cream.

/time she

drank so much Irish whiskey

vomited brown in the tub

and plucked a finished cigarette

straight from my lips

when I asked her to hit me/

so much

so much easier than

remembering the way

my mother’s cheek feels

against mine

it’s the apocalypse.

-

It’s two.

Whiskey and ice cream.

-

Something.

Something.