1983

Twenty-six years later
I’m still a reminder
of aeroplanes and one long summer night.

My mom used to tell me stories of her youth
like her aging was my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I’d say
in the conjuncture
of conversational silence and the background sound
of the blaring television and automobiles
that I was not on or in,
(I wished I was)
while she feigned
careful apathy at the day’s news.

I still can’t get the story
about back-alley abortionists
practicing their trade
on the desperate and destitute
out of my head.