for my mother

It might be all those nights that you, drunk,
wept and cursed and reloaded the dishwasher
the right way hours after we’d tried to.
Or maybe I only need you to know
that you were more beautiful at my age
then I’ll ever be, twenty-five and
standing outside a motel office in Honolulu
talking to a stranger while inside
your new husband signs for a room,
you in white halter top and bare tan
stomach, breasts salted with beads of sweat.
I could tell you I smoke, although
Cliff would kill me if he knew. I worry
that I’ll have orphaned myself
out of a mother by the time I’m pregnant,
will have no one to call about stretch marks
and night sweats. I don’t want anyone
but you watching if the labor’s hard
and they cut me from there to there—
only women should witness violence
inflicted on other women. Right now
you are flying above Chicago
and below you pink lights are lining
the shore of the lake, glinting
like a prom dress. If you look
out over the left wing maybe you can see
Minnesota, it’s dark, you won’t know
where Iowa stops and my state begins,
but all that matters is that I am somewhere
below you, sitting in a garage, I am sorry.