Because you were overweight and wore chains of turquoise
because you were my mother
because you were crazy at the time
because you hadn’t, you said, had sex in five years
because you were crazy at the time and because the pallor of your skin
was changing
because your daughter, my sister, stood head shaking while we held
your voice on the phone and because your daughter, my sister said you were
making it all up
because the room didn’t move when you came home and no one got you water
because you were crazy at the time and the woman becoming chameleon, skin jade and
bloated eyes before me was not my mother
because you were white
because it happened four doors down, if it happened, so you said
because I had played with his daughter as a young girl and once as a young girl I caved in
her stomach with my foot, she sank
because she called him Daddy the way not all little girls get to do
because you wore polyester flowers and because he was thick-moustached and drank dark rum
at his living room shag rug bar
because your husband didn’t kill him
because you wouldn’t let us call the police since you were crazy at the time and thought
they’d take you away, 3 a.m.
because they had taken you away before when you called the police on your husband,
my father
because you were overweight
because you called home several times that night to report
you were still o.k. and would be home as soon as he
let you leave
because your husband didn’t kill him
because I couldn’t see you over the phone
because over the years no one has said much when you bring it up
because my father didn’t kill him
because you were crazy at the time and because as it has happened over the years, I would not
react the same, react the same, would not react
because we knew his name
because you had been jealous of his wife, her mother, before she left him, the beverly, tall and
prance, rose-eyed and peppercorn about mahogany tulip mouth, because you
often accused my father of wanting her
because you cried
because I don’t remember you coming home that night
because Daddy didn’t kill
any of them
because it was easier not to.
from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library
Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.