genetrix

(in loving memory, mom 12/11/1948-06/04/2024)

before there was even a word for it,

before the navy gave dad back,

it was just us—

two against the particular cruelty

of an afternoon that would not end.

you learned me the way water learns a bowl:

completely,

all encompassing,

without trying,

taking my shape so naturally

you must have forgotten you had one of your own.

summers were right smack in your wheelhouse—

the public pool,

the darkened theater,

the whole matinee of ordinary days

you made feel like something

worth holding onto.

and you held onto all of us the same way—

fiercely, embarrassingly,

the way only a woman who knew scarcity

could love abundance.

you ran the books beside us.

you knew every number, every name,

you were the reason any of it worked—

the matriarch of the office

and the Sunday table both,

in love your entire life

with your best friend’s goofy older brother

and his blue eyes

and the whole implausible miracle of that.

two years now,

and I still reach for the phone

before I remember

the phone is the problem.

everything I want tell you

all the questions that need answered

is a door that only opens

from your side.