For Barbara. Published in the spring/summer issue of Newtown Literary Journal, 2020. My father beat on the walls like a

prisoner, while his mother

hung chunks of herself out to dry as if she were

venison, a Hail Mary still wet on her

lips and the maps

God drew standing out blue

across the backs of her wind-weathered hands.

I memorized them

baby-powder musk and all

while she read me to sleep with her

voice so small, when I was still

The Problem,

when I was still an accident made

by someone else,

and not yet by my own

mistakes.

Perhaps I am like her.

She would shoot the moon

in every hand of hearts, but still

they say she was

crazy, too.

And beautiful in red.

She loves God

like an addict; she sings about it

all the time.

She loves me, too

though she caught me stealing wine

last summer at the

reception.

Maybe clean on the surface

isn’t the same as

perfection.