Five Years
I hear she’s living in an apartment near Reno,
filed for bankruptcy, is suing her landlord.
Walking past a mirror the other day,
I recognize my mother’s rigidly set jawline
beginning to show in my own,
and it scares me. I tell myself I hug my boys close
when they cry, say sorry when I’m wrong,
don’t steal their social security numbers
and sell them on the black market.
As a child, I remember waking at night
feeling someone was sitting beside me,
wondering whether it was a dream.
Not even considering it might be my mother
checking to make sure I was sound asleep.
When I woke, there was no sign of anyone.
Do you want to have hotel sex?
blinks the text from my mother
meant for someone she met online.
My face flushes with shame; with rage; with familiarity—
all my life, I’ve tried to rescue her dignity,
but I have no idea how to respond this time.
It occurs to me I don’t have to.
Kokura’s Luck
Kokura, original target of the second atomic bomb,
was spared that day because of bad weather.
Thick cloud cover made it impossible
to find the target.
Afterward, the Japanese call it Kokura’s luck—
to avoid disaster through providence
cloaked in ignorance.
It is meant both as insult and praise.