Which Half

Which Half

Twenty-three from you, my mother,
half my body/mind
for sure my blue eyes
but not my right-handedness
which has made my life easier
than yours, you writing with a coiled hand
smearing ink across the page
for sure my burning, not tanning

At the beach, skin peeling
like potatoes going in with the roast
cooked by Thelma or Nettie or Bertha
over the years, but never you, my mother,
who cooked only Chef Boyardee
and burnt lima beans on Sundays
when you got out of bed and shuffled
into the kitchen looking lost

For sure relentless insomnia
nightmares galloping through
my dreams, dark hearts beating
sleep possible only with pink pills of mercy
like old friends stopping by
to return a book, then staying on for hours
for sure a love of flowers
you stopped the car every time

We passed the Taylors' garden
and cried out look at the delphinium
a flash of joy like a shooting star
but not the hidden bottles in your closet
not the threats of driving into the ancient
maple tree at the bottom of our street
not the sirens waking me, looking out
the window to see you taken away