Back Porch Blues

Mom once told me she couldn't
go to my basketball games
because she didn't want to cut
herself on those metal chairs
and bleed sick blood
where eight-year-olds played.

She hit herself, once,
on the edge of the dishwasher,
and cried for two hours
while she sponged down the floor,
yelling at me to keep away
from her and the metal things.

My sister managed a smile
when she walked in on
her in the bathroom,
trying on her first wig and asked
"how's your bald mother look now?"
Fresh tears glazed her cheeks.

Sometimes I remember
she's going to die in pain
or drooling on her nightgown
from the morphine or oxycontin,
and only then do I feel guilty
for ignoring her after my games.

Mom once told me she only wants
one thing in life--a big porch,
somewhere she can hum like old people should,
and remember when her life was as clean
as my Sunday morning handkerchief.