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Indictment No. 08-01-071

I should have admired you more when you yelled at me
for telling Mom she didn’t save enough money.
You were bald and had a sharp Polish nose,
but like a small dog who’s rifled through
the garbage, I threw up my head and bared my teeth.
The love in that kitchen felt like a rainstorm.

In the years to come, you gave my mother gifts
every first Sunday of the month, even when she
was depressed. This

was during my weekend visits home, she would
sleep all day long and wear dirty sweatpants.
She was upset you were eating pills again for lunch,
buying jewelry at strange antique stores and selling it
on the street. You went through a windshield, and
still your face looked kind. Of course

you were the only man to ever love my mother truly.
Not even my father, the uomo del diavolo, he was too
consumed in ripping the devils from his chest.
Why did you have to, why did you have to
sweep in

and make horrors of everything good? You took
our home to jail with you. You took our best towels
and our best linens and you took our summers
to prison.



Posted 08/20/10
This is unpublished as of yet, but will be part of a larger collection of family-oriented memoir-poetry work.
Comments (1)
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I really like this one Lisa! So much longing for things to have gone differently and told with the voice of a child all grown up but not let go.
08/24/10 7:57pm