Poem 15

Home Movie #43: My Mother Behind the Camera

Don’t lie
when I ask “How’s it going?”
Don’t say rebar when you mean silt.
Don’t breathe words when you want smoke.
Open your eyes for prayers.
Need raws at me. Ration your use.
Don’t say Let’s Eat
when you want to drink.
And don’t say my name
like it’s even the same word
you first tongued in your mouth.

This is how they’ll remember you:
A-stanced over the grill,
your family of drunks and pedophiles,
strutting around, drinking your paycheck.
The kids careen between,
deep in some game to fit the occasion,
which they learned from us.
The steaks murmur, a fire engine peals,
you pour your beer into the meat.
Little amber seeds you hope will plant
and grow them towards you.
You smile at me, the first thing I loved,
spearing a thick cut shaped like your liver,
and finally admit, “It’s almost done.”