Last Sunday My Mother Left for the Third Time

Ellen Zhang

The charmed time. I’m sure of it. My father hangs 

heavy like August gooseberries. He orders

pizza. Forgets to tip. Comes back into the 

living room. Leaves. Comes back.

Silence trims the Christmas tree starting to shed.

I’ve buried the ice skates in the yard. Sight of

blades makes me sick. They remind

me too much of tight-lipped promises. Cracked 

days, we pushed too hard. Ice hardening

fingertips. Blue lips flowering

damp red. Peeling corners. It’s been four days. 

I think my father has given up. Wilts in his armchair.

I order another pizza. I admit jealousy. 

Yesterday, she came back. Her hair in ringlets, 

creased. She returned the suitcase to the back closet. 

I can’t find her favorite dress. I think

I was born out of the womb with shame. 

So easy to please. I hide every careless mistake 

carefully between stacked novels and ashtrays.

We don’t talk much these days. Any of us.

Nothing left said or unsaid. There’s a way to

take up space 

simply by demanding it. Consider

eels slinking like fallen water, 

they know themselves best. In that way,

I am different. I’m not sure about finding. 

I’m not sure how my ice skates appear uprooted

in front of my closet. Polished, sharpened finely. 

In fact, I’m not sure of much these days

except they still fit.

About the writer