Beet juice, that’s what your mother used to dye
your hair that summer. I thought she would choose
something different, something special, the fur
of a red panda, her own magic lips, but no, no,
she used beet juice just like everyone else, and I ended
up disappointed by her just like everyone else you said
divorced, dead, broke, what more? I wanted to toss you
to the ranch then, uninvite you to the Perseid shower
that would be the second most important natural
occurrence in my life, the first being the bass I caught
and kissed in a strange, damp intimacy. When we
convinced ourselves the sky was falling and knew
each other’s ears, I believed love could be the strainer
through which I am sieved. I became afraid at the thought
of becoming your mother, afraid that I was afraid
of something entirely dull and uninspired. On the cruise
ship you stock up on the cocktail shrimp, stuff them
into the tote you got for free at the craft fair in case
we get the nighttime shrimpies. Your sincerity had
always produced a sickness in me, like loosening teeth.