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brain opens my mouth.
    “Do you miss us when you’re gone?”
    Now you might think “yes” would
    pop out from between her lips,
    quick as a jack-in-the-box wound
    tight. No way. She tilts her head
    slightly, as if to tip the right answer
    into her mouth. The maneuver fails.
    Suddenly, she doesn’t look like
    a politician. She folds up, small,
    a woman twice her age, beneath
    the burdens she will forever carry.
    I don’t blame her for not wanting
    to be here. Who does?

We Empty Our Glasses
    Mom opens another bottle,
    pours for us both. I’m getting
    drunk with my mother, and
    neither of us can think of
    a thing to say. Finally, she
    says, I’d better go to bed.
    “Sure, Mom. Me too.”
    I go around the table,
    give her a hug. “Love you.”
    She turns, looks me in the eye.
    Love you too. She pauses, stutters,
    A…are you…all right?
    Anger flares. I want to shout,
    “Like you suddenly care?”
    Want to cry, “Save me!”
    Something acidy rises in my
    throat. If I break down, say
    those things and more, then what?
    But she has already closed
    herself again, snapped shut
    like a heavy door.
    “No,” I say simply. Wineglass
    in hand, I start to leave, turn
    to see her choke back a sob.
    In the living room, the TV
    is on, but Daddy has drunk
    himself into oblivion.
    Cool. I’ll be there soon
    myself. The rest of the house
    is dark, and I leave it that way.
    I stumble up the hallway,
    into my bedroom. Turn on
    the little lamp beside my bed.
    Think about calling Ian.
    But it’s late, and it’s Friday
    night. He’s asleep or out.

Out, Where I Should Be
    Where any self-respecting
    sixteen-year-old should be
    on Friday night. Out,
              getting drunk
    with friends or, better yet,
    a really fine guy, instead
    of tying one on
              at home
    with my marble-hearted
    mother, no less. At least I
    caught a couple of tears, which
              leaves
    me wondering if she ever
    just breaks down or freaks
    out. She used to freak out
              a lot
    before the accident. At least
    then we knew she had feelings.
    But that was before she came
              to be
    completely drained of emotion.
    I wonder if I would have liked
    her when she was young, pretty,
              desired.
    Did she like herself then?
    Before she had children?
    Before she met Daddy?

Raeanne
    I Called Mick
    As soon as the whole house fell
    quiet except for whiskey-fueled
    snores. Sneaking out,
    getting drunk,
    getting high. What better way
    to spend Friday night? Especially
    after too many hours stuck
    at home
    listening to Mom’s political
    bullshit. Aaagh! Save me.
    I, for one, can’t wait until she
    leaves
    again. Hell, maybe she’ll be
    gone by the time I get up in
    the morning. I plan to do
    a lot
    in the way of self-medication.
    Funny term for getting screwed up
    to the point of passing out. I need
    to be
    that messed up to get to sleep
    at all tonight. I’m totally wound.
    Besides, I want to feel
    desired
    for more than what I can bring
    to a campaign. A campaign
    that only fills our lives with pain.

There’s a Party
    Up on Figueroa. That’s a mountain
    not too far from here, but far enough
    so parents and cops rarely want
    to take the drive, especially at night.
    Even if they did, we have our favorite
    party place, well off the main road,
    and a mile or so back on a dirt track,
    not something they’d happen upon.
    Great place for hide-and-seek.
    Great place for a kegger, too.
    And that’s our destination.
    Mick drives like a maniac,
    which would be all right except
    I really, really want to get high,
    and smoking dope and speeding
    don’t exactly go hand in hand.
    I could be bitchy, and it may come
    to that. But I’ll try sweet talk first.
    “If you slow down a little, I’ll roll
    a nice big joint. And after we smoke
    it, just maybe I’ll mess around
    with your nice big joint too.”
    Okay, so it isn’t eloquent,
    but it works.

He Slows
    To right around the speed
    limit