One day, I paint my mother’s face
with rocks – pound Dolostone,
Basalt, Quartzite into powder,
 
dribble spit into what I crush,
rub paint onto her nose, cheeks,
forehead – every streak one finger
 
wide. My mother: remade. Wild,
glossed with magic. I take a picture,
try to fix her as warrior companion.
 
I wave the polaroid like a smoke
blessing, wait for it to dry.
When I look up, she’s gone.
 
Later, I find her in her sewing room –
face washed off, her foot on the pedal
of her machine as though she is driving
 
our brown Oldsmobile to the milk store.
The windows are open. Streetlights
buzz. It’s Indian Summer.
 
Heat blurs the trees
into smudged still lives.
My mother stuffs elastic
 
into a waistband, sends me to bed.
I lean out my window like a dog.
Bats reel. Rabid. Lucky. I squirm
 
all night, searching for the cool part
of my cotton sheets, those places
my body has not yet been.