When she’s standing or sitting
or sleeping, it’s hard to tell
how Mama is vanishing.
But when she’s walking,
when her stick-legs start moving,
I see the bones knocking
against clothes that sag
and bunch.
I’m not doing too well
since your daddy . . . she says,
but I guess she can’t
say all the words.
She stares at her fingers,
spread out on the table
in front of us.
Her nails are
black and dirty.
It’s all right, I say again,
even though it’s not.
She plays with an
imaginary line on the table.
I watch her hands
I don’t remember.
I’m sorry, she says,
and this time she
looks right at me.
For a minute, I look back.
Her eyes wrap around me.
Mama is supposed to know
the right way from here,
what to do and how to live
without my daddy,
but she looks at me
like maybe I’m the one
with all the answers.
I look away, and Mama
squeezes my hand,
like she’s saying
she understands.
I love you, Paulie, she says.