mom taught us
that bad things happen in threes
like us—me, the oldest—
the two of you, younger.
closer. I’d watch you both
as you fell asleep in the car,
your light eyes hidden,
protected; the only time
we look related. there wasn’t a parent
left to tuck me in, so I carried myself to bed,
climbed the spiraling staircase higher
and higher towards my bedroom.
I wanted to know how to fit in
with disappearing clouds.
nobody knew how to answer
but they knew how to demonstrate:
pots and pans flying in the kitchen,
clanking against painted walls, tile,
bone. I’m still watching, observing.
taking note. Wish I knew
how to stay high forever,
the apex of an object thrown
before it comes down too hard,
crashing. the clatter of borrowed time,
the mess of it all. I wish I knew
how to fight with both wrists straight—
a pen tracing a ruler.
But I’m free hand. I’m jazz, baby.
the lightning carving out a spot
in the pavement. some things
you never see but just know.
like meeting someone else
whose mother left them, too.
