IN THE KITCHEN
the sun burst through the
window, bathing my mother,
who slept slumped at the
table, her head resting in the nest of her red, swollen arms.
She’d probably been scratching
all night, maybe trying to scratch
the guilt away. I wanted to
wake her and tell her that it wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t.
Instead, with the pistol heavy
on my back, I stepped lightly
over the creaky parts of the
floor, trying not to wake her and lie about where I was going.
And break her heart even more.