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Ma, I learned the language of leaving 

from the way your hands, one cold evening, 

held a cigarette like it was a wound. 

You'd tap the ash, say love was only a breath— 

something to pull in, let go, then forget. 

I love you in the way we share the same skin. 

I remember the day you softly touched my skin, 

said, there’s nothing worth the pain of staying. Leaving

was a second job for us—how could we forget 

the way old age crinkles skin like paper. In the evening, 

you poured whiskey like a prayer, each breath 

a sigh that trembled like an old wound. 

What is an act of love if not the salting of a wound? 

And it’s the feeling of such an act that burns my skin, 

you said it was the only way you could hold me, but a single hitched breath 

was all it took. And then we go in circles leaving— 

the kitchen lit by the soft glow of evening, 

and you come back to close the blinds, something you said you'd never forget. 

So, each night I taught myself to forget 

your voice that sang out like a tender wound. 

I hid in the quiet arms of evening, 

wished for the moment your touch left my skin 

like a shadow giving up, like letting go — leaving. 

I knew it was the shape of love taking its last breath. 

But mother, I am stitched from your very same breath, 

woven from the days you beg me to forget. 

A new home for us to finally grow, but it still feels like leaving. 

The final fistful into the wound. 

I look in the mirror and I'm wearing your skin— 

the same brownness in the same golden glow of evening. 

Now, it’s this day’s evening, 

that hears the echo of your tired breath. 

I touch my face, trace your name in my skin, 

and wonder if I can ever forget 

the shape of you forever, the same burning wound 

that never heals a blistering, festering mark. Like love never leaving. 

Evening comes again, but this time I forget 

To close the blinds, ma, will you come in once more. Let the light shine on your skin?

Ma, for all that you’ve done I still carry you in every single breath.