5/30

the bathroom door is 
closed

she must be 
drinking 
again

she does when the four of us
are left in her
reliable

(living under same roof
convenient babysitter
for party mother)

but menacing hands

I can hear her 
singing 

to herself

drawing pictures on 
the cracked and toothpaste
smeared mirror

in maroon lipstick
pulled from torn
purse pocket

(it has lived in that 
fading, nicotine stained
bag for 20 years, more)

she traces outlines of 
her aging face
leaving out the time stamps

swirl of hair line
longer than it actually is
she's young and just beginning

Her good husband 
died
car wreck
Valentine's Day
Nineteen Sixty something

I carry his name and not the
name of my mother's father

She whispers this name
over and over
Does he answer her back?

perhaps like the
Tony Todd film
he appears behind her

"Thelma, it was always you"

Her voice is slurred and
droning on
loveyouloveyouloveyoumissyou

her eyes have never
not been cruel
in the 12 years I have breathed

bathroom door creaks
open

she is smiling
a drooling terrible 
mouth

"Grandma loves you"

the gust of cheap beer stench
that will turn me away from
that amber liquid until the day I die

No matter how carefully brewed
or exotic the ingredients

lipstick faces on the mirror
life as it could have been
sorrow begets sorrow