My Mother’s Handwritten Grocery Lists

I refused to throw out 
a single one— 
eggs, milk, Wonder Bread— 
the tiny blue checks 
like a secret code, 
a trail leading me down 
aisles I was forced now 
to navigate alone.

Returned to, drafted again: 
here, the future flickers, 
remains unfinished.

Such long Augusts 
I spent at her side, 
the two of us watching 
red-tailed birds hang 
their trills 
on summer’s dirty hooks. 
That calamine lotion she rubbed 
into my shoulders.

*

The lotion she rubbed 
into my shoulders. 
The two of us 
and the bright 
red birds— 
cardinals, weren’t they? 
What I wouldn’t give 
for one last August 
at her side.

Mother, unfinished: 
When you were in it 
the world was good, 
a place without suffering. 
Urges arrived labeled 
like spices in their jars, 
and I knew what each was for.

Dust turns to dust. 
Snow to dust. 
The ancient fog rolls in, 
sweeps away anything 
unpinned. 
Deranged, I stand 
searching for you 
in every aisle, 
behind every shelf, 
and suspect I 
must do so 
for the rest of my days.