Failed Memoir

i disappeared in a sandstorm at 17 fleeing Oberlin and bulimia
after two semesters underwater for a year in family court
saving my children breast cancer taking mom and then Jan into
an abyss when i left my son halfway across the country to mend
at the mercy of iv poles pacing the halls of migraine
hospitalizations scaling a firewall when my failed marriage
chased me with razor blades off a cliff after my brother
shed his skin leaving only a forked tongue on the road under a
pitch veil when dad died in my arms before we found home
inside a vortex as madness courted my daughter with no curfew
now I fade so incrementally it is almost imperceptible
like dust motes gradually rendered invisible by shifting light rays
someday soon you will look at me and see moth’s wings
a leafy spine a wind picked ember a flash in your periphery
and then nothing at all

Senior Discount

I can now get discounted pancakes
my son Gabe informs me over breakfast, stifling his laughter.
I am not amused. A senior discount

when I am not even 60. This kind of abomination
is why I avoid chain restaurants. I refuse
the discount and make Gabe pay
for breakfast. Senior pancakes become a running joke
between us. My future IHOP years

become a container
for our symbiotic fears—
His, that I will die and loose the monsters that steal his sleep.
Mine, that I will die and leave him undefended.

2am text: Mom, please don’t die.
Me: Not planning to kid – and miss all the free pancakes?

His admonition when I leave the house
to “be safe in and around cars” becomes a family
valediction. I start a document
on my computer called, “Mom

Manual,” a repository for whatever wisdom I can muster.
The phone number for the plumber.
Which bills are on autopay. What to do
when the pharmacy demands pre-authorization.
How to find sliding-scale
therapy. Box breathing. Meanwhile,

I hold my breath in cars, planes, echocardiograms
blood tests. I remind the universe
that I need to be here long
enough for him to be okay.
I pray to everyone and no one in particular,
to myself and whoever else might be listening.

Midnight: Mom, I had a bad dream, please confirm you’re still alive.
Me: damn straight, I don’t plan to miss my IHOP years.