Mom, you are shrinking.

 
The down winter coat
couldn’t fatten you up
and when I hugged you
goodbye like I have
every year of my life
those down feathers
whooshed
out

your warmth
a cat skeleton
cradle of bones
enough to build
a kiddy camp fire
cigarette smoke
and

old people dust
that stuff that
smells like
rotting scroll paper
in a basement

escaped you.

This has
Goodbye for Real
written all over it.

You couldn’t even look me in the eye.

Just like the day
I was 5 years old
you went to prison
but called it
“the grocery store.”

Rather than the Ole Grey Dog

you’re flying this time
back to the Rez people
who know your ways.

Drunk by noon
but she’s in a good mood,
so let her be
how she wants to be.

Please—
just don’t go
and die there.

Not in that state.
Ugh, Nebraska.

Not yet, could ya?
Just wait?

I haven’t figured out
what to say
about everything
that has never
passed
between us.

I am still here,
eight
years old.

We will never
really meet.

Watching you climb
out of our window
to the Casino,
some man’s
El Camino
warming
in the street.

*

(Featured image by Alexander Taranenko)

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