Things My Mother Forgets
The boy who grew a mustache sitting under
his desk in seventh grade. My dirty palms
staining her door frames. How her nose controls the direction
of a cut straw over our bathroom counter. The pill dust
lapped up with her ring finger. She forgets hiding her rig
under the sink, behind that shampoo bottle
we never open. How every day I check if it’s still there.
The stench of mold I catch ducking my head
beneath the pipes. Those movie nights we mock
the attractive. The two pieces of popcorn lost
under the couch. She might remember the green chile stew
she makes some evenings but not my stomach.
The pork but not my jaw breaking it apart. She forgets
my voice. The lisp I tuck behind
my tongue on the school bus. How she taught me to hold my tongue
back behind the stalls of my teeth if I say
horse. Or if I utter another S.
She forgets other animals too. The family
cat curled like a pubic hair on a bed sheet.
The dog that runs off more than she does; how they always come home
with fresh cuts on their chins. She forgot her address
once. A policeman called. Dad and I met him in a parking lot, my mother waiting
in his backseat, smoking a cigarette she forgot to light.
"Things My Mother Forgets" originally appeared in Salt Hill, then Sapello Son (Bull City Press, 2024).
