my wife was eight months pregnant
and the pressure was on at work
but I had to leave that behind –
more than a year had gone by
and I hadn’t visited my mother
there was no sleep there:
the bed was too short,
there were
no shades
and she started the laundry
around five,
sometimes a little earlier,
then emptied the dishwasher
RRRRRR,
RRRRRR
(washing machine),
clinkclankclankclank
(a fork and three dishes),
all of the bugs in Maine
fell in love
with my sugary New York diet,
they had their way with me on the sweaty, short bed
with the really clean sheets,
on the day
I was supposed to fly,
I told her that the plane was leaving an hour and a half
before
it was really leaving
so that I would be on time
but
the laundry started a little later,
the dishes
clinkclankclanked
a little longer,
breakfast began a little later,
during the scenic drive to Portland
she told me that she’d recently learned
that her ex,
my stepfather
liked to smoke crack
and hang out with prostitutes
when he called to say
he was working late,
there was something about
a substitute teacher
who lived down the street,
I remembered him wearing
my mother’s panties
after a soccer match
and as we drove up to the terminal
she told me that
sometimes
French mothers
would suck their babies’ penises
to calm them down
when they’re crying.
Poetry