i have only ever seen my mother
behind tendrils of
cigarette smoke or a
glinting can of cheap midwestern beer--
once i saw her between
the truth, and a lie--
not certain of what i was seeing.
it was not until i was much
older--perhaps not wiser--
i realised the name 'Mia' was not
my mother's friend; three letters glaring
behind a CD case, on a tag of lacey
lingerie, a short skirt, fishnet
to catch dollar bills.
i listen now to girls my age
joke about removing
a glove, a skimpy top--
their love of anything that won't bring
money. i see their eyes widen
when i joke of following in
my mother's platform heels--silver
glitter, knee-high boots, school-
girl skirt i swiped in sixth grade,
not realising she'd worn it
for a holler, a whistle, a bill stuffed
in places nearby where i
emerged, a screaming beacon of a
not-quite-fruitless marriage.
