Don’t Go

They once laughed all the way to the lawn and garden section,

a Nozzle for the Hozzle,

my mother took me to the beach,

my father took me to the mountains,

this was the way of things

they both came to this valley for different reasons

I was raised in the city

as if it were neutral ground

dad drove his datsun to the dale of trout

a brown thing resistant to shine

I picked at the exposed foam of the seats

like when one mindlessly plucks grass

his bong wedged between the seat and emergency brake

the highway whisked by through a hole in the floor

poles, lures, gaffs rattled in the trunk

the sandy river bank

two hundred year old ash

swallowed my feet at the shore

I dug a worm out of the Styrofoam cup

dad said it is too big for the hook

so I pulled it apart, guts ruptured

I saw my family in the palms of little hands, torn.

Fuddy-duddy old man mumbles of women

being like buses

that there is always another one coming

I caught a fish, an ugly bottom feeder,

dad said to throw it back

I couldn’t get the hook out

it saddened me to see it float away—belly up

dad read his westerns

and we rode off towards the sunset

towards home and the shores

of my mother’s bipolar tide pools

rain falling faster than wiper blades could manage

we entered the storm

I waved goodbye

and swung my string of fish over my shoulder

skipped up the stairs

silent empty rooms searched

her room was the last one

Mom. Mom? Where are you mother?

powder blue cheeks

violet lips—belly up,  

head dangling off the side of the bed

eyes looking at nothing

floor littered with spilt pills and crumbled notes

how will the moon feel when the earth dies?

I ran, down, out, into the parking

turning the corner to see

his datsun at the end of the drive

turn signal on

I shouted and waved

frantic child arms at his rearview mirror

Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.