Holding my hand in the
parking lot
and I skip over gritty yellow
lines.
promise me you'll
buy me lunch
and really that's all I need.
later I take your hand in mine and,
bored, I study it.
polished slick nails, a shiny ring, lots of
smooth, soft skin.
lines
in your palm, you let me
open and
close your hand to watch them crumple
and bloom.
walking to the store with my friend,
without you
for the first time ever.
lines
in the sidewalk
and she tells me that rhyme
so I don't step on any of them
the entire way.
lines
in the carpet from the vacuum
that I didn't run just perfect.
lines
in your forehead
that you say are my fault.
lines
that form the letters
when I write I'm sorry Mommy...
but somewhere we crossed
a line
and you're not Mommy anymore.
