Her neck nods, then halts, catching herself from sleep
on the couch, like when she’d come home from work
while we were under her roof
.
I feel like I need to fix something
Blue light flickers into the wrinkles of her sixties,
into her cheeks and eyes
.
Or that I failed somehow
I feel bad you guys aren’t friends
And now she takes misguided grandchildren
.
prays for them to iron out and keep straight
their young souls, which my oldest brother wasn’t
taught how to mold. So she tucks them in sleeping bags
.
and takes them to church, and does the old job
that three-verse number of hers
and one day they still strangle a cat
.
or kill one in the dryer when nobody’s looking
or run away from home
or sneak out of the detergent aisle to be alive elsewhere
.
but she knows it is an eternal role
her Earthly purpose, to be mother and half father:
to love unconditionally and to scrutinize
.
a lack of common sense
to make us tough and sweet like the Fraser
fir-shaped sand tarts she bakes at Christmas
.
You didn’t fail us, I say, picturing Dad’s nest of tools,
all the work he’s done for his collection of transistor radios
You had to be more than you when Dad gave up…
.
We’re friends, I assure. Just different people.
.
Yeah, she says. Dad does seem like that.
But he’s so proud of you.
