Home from the night shift at Ma Bell
you wake us up
make breakfast for me and Lisa
  You always have rye toast and beer
  calories for the little bit of stomach left to you
    I never want toast until I smell
    what’s coming from the toaster
      Then I have to have it
      You give me bites of yours

You send us off to school, you sleep
we’re home for lunch, you spoon spaghetti-o’s
into our bowls
  You let us dip our sandwiches,
  grilled cheese, into ketchup

Such a tall, ancient, bony old lady
eyes big behind Coke-bottle glasses
papery skin flaked like snow

I never broke that blue bookend, just
looking at its plastic seashells made
it fall apart
  I didn’t mind you spanking me
  That didn’t even hurt

Your bird claw hand squeezing my shoulder
shaking your anger out at me, squinting your eyes
you tell me that
  you’re going to sell me to the Indians
  (Where, between your sparkle and your smile?)

Days off, you take us on the El downtown
to the racetrack, teach us how to place our bets
to the high-domed library
  we leave with armloads of books
to restaurants with fancy napkins
  tell them to light the candles, bring the cake
  sing the song, it’s our birthday, always

We left you when I was nine,
nothing lined up after that.

I saw you once a year, at Christmas,
seated on the couch like a queen,
telling people to get your purse, your drink.

You weren’t the sun.
You were the moon and stars to me
you made me welcome to this world
you made me wanted.

Then you were gone, bony claw and all.

I retrieved your rickety pine rocking chair.
Lashed to the back of the van, its foam
cushions disintegrated in the rain.
Days drifted the frame away from me.