She never told me that she loved me
but I tell myself that she did;
I make believe that she said it
with her homemade biscuits,
and fried chicken,
her waffles and spaghetti.
I imagine that it was in her voice
when she called me in from play,
or it was in the way that she shook her head
and accepted the fact that
I was difficult
She never hugged me,
or held my hand when we crossed a street,
and I don’t ever recall a kiss,
or a fond wish, for a good night.
I do recall that when I was 15 years old
and I took the semiautomatic Colt
from under her mattress
and contemplated dying too
but I didn’t (die)
and I am not sorry.