scrub toilets until you can see your face as you piss,

until her hugs smell only of rubber & bleach. Her knuckles

are rougher than my father’s, tougher than anything

behind a dumpster with Timberlands and a metal bat.

At nine years old, the sound of her car leaving the garage

would wake me up in the morning. Her shift ended

at midnight, so at bedtime, I would take out all my toys

and wait for her and play with dinosaurs on the couch.

But the morning would come with the crank of her

engine, again. I’m sorry, Mama, I’d blink, knotting

myself deeper into my sheets, but I couldn’t breathe

& keep my eyes open at the same time. I’m sorry, I’d stomp,

crushing snails after school, I didn’t love you enough

to stay awake. When night came again, I’d yawn,

pull out my triceratops, and vow to see her before

bed. I thought I would never make it.

                                                                     Then one night,

the door broke open like a promise, the light behind her

head darkening her face as she lifted me numb

from the sofa. I twitched, maybe managed a smile,

as her hand stroked the left side of my face—rough.