We were the lighthouses
watching our wooden mothers
haul themselves across tides
of liquor store receipts,
cradling anchors in their stomachs.
I watched her drink herself into a sinkage
a few years ago.
Living room couches just aren’t the same
after a piece of someone has died in between
Instead of looking for loose change,
I was always hoping to pull out
a handful of lint
& find some of her sobriety tangled in it.
We were the frail fingers
getting stuck in the mouths of glass bottles
just to put our mothers back together.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.