Transit of Memory

(green grass and cloudy sunsets)

Where did my mother go?

Is she dead? Yes.

But she’s in the living room, reading a book to you —

To me, to you, to her dead self, twenty years later.

I came to school one day without a pencil;

I came home one day without a mother.

Skipping stones across the pond by myself,

I thought of stuffed animals and Dr. Seuss;

I dreamt of demons and rings of fire.

I went to bed hungry —

So I ate your soul for breakfast.

I hope you don’t mind; it was so cold —

Sweet —

Delicious —

And yes, that was just to say.

Don’t let me forget what I did to you.

I can’t forgive myself — but I do anyways.

Did you call me evil?

I suppose you should: me the backstabber,

The tattle-teller (liar liar pants on fire)

The girl who stole your eraser.

I said I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I meant it.

So I’ll say it again: I’m sorry.

Not that it really means anything anymore —

I just thought I’d say it...just to say.

Mother said I was unappreciative for not saying “thank you” enough,

And for groaning when she told me to do homework.

But now she’s dead and I’m having an identity crisis

And I can’t remember why — I can’t remember why.

Why do I end up here?

(I’m sitting atop a hill, lying down, watching stars)

And watching my hands tremble in front of me,

Thinking of Thursday afternoon art classes

And that time I fell onto the dirt ground and scraped myself.

I’m at the edge of sleep, my eyes heavy with the past.

I’m trying to find myself somewhere in the dark,

Feeling my way, in vain,

Dancing out an aimless path.

Inklings of childhood drip by,

Like raindrops upon a window pane,

And I’m looking as hard as I can,

But all I can see is my dead mom

And you,

Scowling at me.