NIGHTS ALONE

by Garret P. Quinn

when I see my mother now,
golden gray hair and wrinkled skin
brittle bones and weak worn heart
I only see her back then...

straightening her obsidian wig,
pouting her rose red lips
in the cracked mirror,
the heels of those
blueblack stilettos stabbing
the beige carpet
as she stumbles
across the room,
thin pocket book pinched
between naked arm and
pushed-up right breast

and me,
so small on that
stabbed carpet,
in that carpet.
looking up that short jean skirt
not understanding
the places she’d go
or the things she’d do

her tousling my hair
saying goodnight sweetheart
saying she’d be back
saying she’d be back soon

but all I see is the
broken crumpled
pack of cigarettes
on the kitchen counter
as the only thing
she’d forgotten.