We’re thinking about you
We’re watching The Jazz Singer
on a Sunday morning, the rain
snuffing out any energy in us,
the little raindrops thrashing
against the windowpane.
We’re thinking about you.
We’re thinking about the December
daybreaks, when you’d spark from sleep
like embers from ash and walk
around the house in a nightgown
when the sky was still pink. We talk
about how it could never happen again
but secretly hope it will.
She still collects postcards for you.
She stows them under the bed,
snakes on mattresses, sobs
into pillows. I watch her from
the small crack in the door. Then
she sleeps.
The raindrops slice the silence,
Al Jolson sprinkles it with sugar.
Your mother’s feet are planted in
the muted cushions like birthday candles.
At night, her screams leak under
my door. I fold them like napkins
and swallow them whole.
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