what my mother stuffed into her purse
the night she left our father
and forgot to take us.
Whether she left her hymnbook
and took a comb. Whether she packed a sandwich and took
the time to spread mustard on both slices of bread.
When my mother returned the next day -- all shaking bones,
heavy hair -- young and gorgeous as ever with Jesus
freshly resurrected on her breath -- I first kissed her.
Then kicked her. For years
I confused the one
for the other.
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