For Barbara. Published in the spring/summer issue of Newtown Literary Journal, 2020. My father beat on the walls like aprisoner, while his motherhung chunks of herself out to dry as if she werevenison, a Hail Mary still wet on herlips and the mapsGod drew standing out blueacross the backs of her wind-weathered hands.I memorized thembaby-powder musk and allwhile she read me to sleep with her voice so small, when I was stillThe Problem, when I was still an accident madeby someone else, and not yet by my own mistakes.Perhaps I am like her.She would shoot the moon in every hand of hearts, but still they say she wascrazy, too.And beautiful in red.She loves God like an addict; she sings about itall the time.She loves me, toothough she caught me stealing winelast summer at thereception.Maybe clean on the surfaceisn’t the same asperfection.