Not Vegas but cheap carpet and smoke
stuck on leather jackets nevertheless. I lost
at slots and thought I deserved it.
So I played more. I was so angry that week.
It’s been a year
since Jesus dangled from the chain
around my neck. The T
his body made was really for my mother—
Terri, or time, or some other tragedy—
but what’s the point?
You hit the jackpot
and I was angry at you. Lucky,
lucky you. I forgot about your mother’s tumor,
the fingertip edging the light switch of her
pituitary gland.
Why pray to strike it big
when praying for her seems useless?
You are everything I thought I did
and didn’t want. Strong. Kind. Intelligent.
Kind of like a woman. A mother, but
in a man’s body.
Fingers. Again. Again.
Lucky.
If you killed me, I’d forgive you.
