When a party in Hamilton got too much
too neon yellow, all burning
and not enough bridges, I called her—
my mother getting petrol in her nightgown
my friend Bobby threatening to throw up
we were uppity little terrorists.
My mother would have given me a kidney
a lung, her house, probably
but $17 for a folder to carry my drawings
to and from art class was exorbitant
like a salesman asking if you could spare a minute—
she always felt she was being ripped off.
Night framed her serene image
a headlight halo in the blue smoke
her European car and this idea of Florence
of Nightingales, but now I’m older—
I turn too readily, checking
if there is someone left to save us.