I took a step forward to hold your hand.
You never slapped me like my mother did,
scarlet slap sharp like the plaster imprints
I made for Mother’s Day in second grade.
No Mother’s Day tokens or birthday sweets
from you but once a pack of menthol Kents—
a surprise, those Kents—your noticing
my choice—but hollow rang the kitchen,
hollow rang my belly—belly full of child.
Another job lost—you lost—drinking beer
all day, lost in another bar, me lost
in the dark—baby mining my spine. You shoved
me to the wall, spine striking. You launched me,
twisting from your hands—stepping away—gone.
