by Alison Taverna
My mother vanishes from dinner parties:
card nights with the neighbors; Budweiser, burgers, tortellini salad.
The guests cross lawns like sidewalks, smell of sunscreen, our front door
At night our house buzzes like the backs of lighting bugs.
My mother is in the garage
between the lawn mower and water can smoking.
In two hours I will see my father washing dishes,
ask where she is, but he won’t say, though he knows.
I won’t then or now understand
how at 11, sure, I crept
to the garage. It was the
of quick dread, the summer ending.
There—legs propped on a spare tire, I see her.
A sworn quitter, hidden,
as she licked the rings of smoke from the air.