Let’s talk about the ways we’ve been abandoned.
She, at seven days, by a mother preoccupied by
the Chevy she’d lifted from her parents,
taking it home, childless. And you, less
dramatic, but nonetheless traumatic –
the rapture threatening daily to spin
you off like a Kansas twister, vying
with the safety pin stuck safely
in your crotch to teach you
something about staying put, and
something about the distance
between your mother’s love and
yours. And mine, less urgent
of all, less wonderful – oh, I forget.
Was it something I imagined? Who
can see it? Recall? Can you? Can you? Can she?

Categories: The Grind
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