Noxious Zygote
I wasn’t the twinkle
in my mother’s eye, more
a lump on the tongue,
a taste-bud gone rogue,
a masticated wound gnawing
inside the mouth.
Her car at full throttle,
never out of first gear.
Five hundred miles
to go, back
in 1968.
Huffing and puffing.
He was there.
She was here.
Not near. Enough
was enough. Alone,
lonely, she would fix—that
cancer of the throat.
Scapegoating herself into
“I’m dying.” Checking out
the rear-view mirror, looking
for signs of new growth,
missing the affliction
budding on the end
of her nose.
Liar. Liar. Pants on
fire. Better put out
that smoke.
She stood on the stoop
in a telling goodbye—seduction
of tongue on a nicotine roll.
Smoke rings hung like a halo.
He said she was his angel.
Together they conceived
a new lie.