my mother shopped
desperate-eyed for something to ease
the fallout from—
from what? She never said.
My guesses include
alcohol
choices she regretted
and comparing herself
unfavorably.
She seldom returned things she bought
Even when they turned out to be wrong
Old things, stained or ripped or outgrown?
She kept those too.
The back stairwell from kitchen to second floor
was piled with remnants of shopping trips
stuffed into dark green trash bags
Inside were clothes nobody wore—things never left our house.
She kept it all—shopping misadventures and secrets
Oh, those didn’t leave for years and years
That’s what made them secrets.
Through all the seasons of growing up
they mildewed in airless bags
we shaped ourselves around. You could use the stairs
if you stepped carefully but it was a slippery way so we stayed quiet.
She didn’t like us climbing there which made it
Irresistible
All that? Decades ago.
Now, today, I am driving to you through dense fog
Weather wraps around my car
while inside I sing along with the radio
holding the everlonger past and what I build from it
I carry it in how I regard every thing that happens even
how I think of you which
explains why I love sex so much more
than shopping. So you find me
in the middle of the day at the kitchen sink—
I am looking out the window at deer in the upper field
when you kiss the back of my neck
I lean my whole self to press against you
and set down everything I carry until it’s just you and I
dressed in the delicious moment that is
Now
Puff Of Smoke Poems 