to her father, to Shreveport
uncles who took her in at nine
when her mother died. Goodbye
curls flying, skirt twirling, about
to collapse in tall grass, limbs
loose, late summer heat, goodbye
memory, cigar smoke, bourbon,
uncles, the places she’s forgotten
they touched her,
as she raised me, they stung,
those berries growing
wild in her mouth, how
berry they tasted, strawberry
rashes leaking down the arms
and legs she covered even
in mid-summer sun,
mine and hers, praying
nothing showed.