I've held on to everything -
except the dining room table
your mother passed down,
because I was angry with us.
I've held on to flawed details
of so many memories of you,
in your red dress as blinding as the sun
in your blue running shorts,
topless on the couch,
eating grapes
as any Roman Goddess would.
I've held on to things you touched,
to things you said.
I've held on to soooo much
and still, it would all fit
in the back of a car,
cats in the backseat
to carry with me
over oceans
and continents:
A penance for a failed childhood.
feb. 2023
