Please know it was never about you, Mom. Roads have always crooked their fingers. Tell Dad
rent was paid timely, even if coin was siphoned from the bitter blood you gave me.& the pea
on my mattress digs into the women I ladder into bed each night. One-lane suitors you
didn’t intend when the town set its teeth in me. When the stars straightened up, unjamming,
I figured we could finally have a go at this fault-line called family. I have mourned us enough.
Guessed the weight of too many traveling carnivals.I want to come home; it seems the tent
as I knew it is gone. & the welcoming brigade is a skeleton crew. Here is my handful of lone-
ly dirt. May it bring you more solid ground than you received from your wanderlust daughter.
You can also read this poem here.