Sunday Night Bingo

— For Mom

All grief, anyone’s grief,
is the weight of a sleeping child
— Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

Your first born sleeps eternal—
A whisper in the ear
A bundle swaddled
at the bottom of the breath.

I, alone, am the promise;
The fountain of youth,
the only ovaries left.
All the eggs in one

basket-case who tosses back Fireball
in the bathroom stall
of the Kinsmen, while you
organize sheets, situate charms.

Each clinging to our rituals
of comfort, our gimmicks
for chasing down luck.
I grow careless with my numbers,

uninvested in the cards
I’ve been given.
Oblivious; omnipotent,
the bearded caller continues,
I sense without looking,

your eyes
over my shoulder,
searching, as always
for what I may have missed.

Having learned in the most
unfathomable way
that life is a gamble,

you give yourself

to these games of chance—
addicted to beating odds,

chasing jackpots.