we gather in our fancied clothes,
our camelhair and leather gloves,
our warm-colored coats and our strappy heeled shoes.

and no one is happy.
no one is really happy.

everything is a waste,
and a loaded gun.
i see her on the verge of nothingness,
that's sadder than my suicide notes.
on the way back we drive over
that huge graveyard passed the city,
and i bite my cheek to rid the thought of "lucky".

another dose of tetracycline and an unzipped fly
on the covered couch, we put our feet up and i
pick the skin of my cuticles in an attempt to fixate
myself towards something less innert than football games on mute.

cheeky pecks and "nice to see you" salutations,
when i walk away their pursed lips follow my skirt-tails
that wait until the door slams to start speaking.

"has she lost weight?
has she gained thirty?
is she still sleeping around?
will anyone love her?
will anyone ever love her?"

at the discarded table that veers off in between the dining room
and the lounge, so that you have to pull
your chair in over the carpet of the other room
to position yourself comfortably in the fold up chairs,
that balance wobbly over post it notes for balance--
i see my mother's eyes-- cognizant of only loss.

i am her great mistake.
and she will not let go of burdens.

another steaming meal before us,
we tip our glasses and grind our teeth.
God bless us all.

the napkins folded at our laps,
i take a fork into my elbow
and dig in.

and i don't take pie.

11/22/2007

Posted on 11/22/2007
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer