Sometimes I like to think of you young.
Smoking among cheap cars and grocery buggies.
Listening to the ’80s quietly so your parents won’t hear.
Filling fountains with bubbles. Kicking walls.
Do you still crave the things you once wanted?
Have the same dreams?

You had three children
and you called it love.

There is a memory of bathing your feet, your hands
with the water of a backyard game –
it was summer and your toenails were red –
and a young yellow cat with an undeserving name
and laughter (Yours? Theirs? Mine?)
and the slanted clouds of a summer sky.

I washed your feet, your hands
and you called it love.

I grew upward and attitude and mouth.
I’ve a fondness for words, how they sound and simply are,
but I’ve strung painful ones together
and nailed them into your heart, your backbone.
My bitter. My very worst.
You took all into your hands.

You held it in your palms
and you called it love.

You’ve deserved better.