Forgive Me Right Now (NaPoWriMo #7)

Jack says, “I’m an alcoholic, I guess,”
after punching a mirror.
I say don’t guess – know.

Therapist says set boundaries
but police tape needs ironing
and I don’t do bitch work.

Jack says, “Don’t take my baby away.”
Mom tells us stories
of wrong choice people.

All dead now.

Miami (NaPoWriMo #1)

I’ll turn my hand to
Veterinary college, marriage,
Coco Pop cake baking.
The ring
is a nail’s width,
slides, so the underside
of my hand’s scratched.
One month
a handful of teeth
courtside seats
and the American dream:
stage Mom,
pension by your forties.