You know, my mother never forgave my father, either
Though he did not leave us for the darkness of eternal slumber
Instead, for the heat and stink and sand and sulfur of a special piece of hell on Earth.
And his name, too, was locked away, but for the times it was aired out to dry
Like ***** laundry.

And when he dared to show himself
My mother, too, could not lose her frown.
No whiskey on his breath, but eyes that begged to forget
A cheek that dared to stubble and scrape as we’d waltz
And knock the paintings from the walls.

Away again he’d go, taking all the warmth, to leave us in that blue-black cold.
My mother got up to early, to iron our clothes and turn on the stove
But no warmth could splinter the chronic anger left in the loneliness.
No one ever thanked her, either.
What did I know?