When mom had to work for some days straight I was left
with a woman Named Donna.
A hoarder, a fishstick lover, a scar haver and she won’t tell me how,
Someone who said if I didn't finish dinner I was to sit there until I did.
Her daughter and I shared a small bed and shared a small bathtub
And we washed each other's hair.
Donna didn't have a radio,
But she had a car.
Donna had Phantom of the Opera on cassette.
In December she would walk us girls out to her ‘92 beater Toyota Corolla Where we walked past the black garbage bags of clothes
Waiting for a warm sunny day.
She wrapped us up in her duvet cover
She yanked off her crumpled up bed
Turned the car on and pushed in the cassette tape,
Showing us how to do it so we could put the second one in on our own
Like big girls.
I watched as the Colorado snow fell down past the windup windows
Hugging each other in the back seat under the covers.
I knew nothing of the tape we would listen to
Other than the fact that the music made me dream of dancing mirrors
And expensive tastes.
The windows would be completely fogged by the time the tapes finished
And there would be a gentle knock on the car
And with my hands swiping past the moisture of giggles and song
I would see my mom peeking through, beckoning me back home.
Separated from me by a locked door
And a certain happiness she doesn't understand.
