I wish I’d gone to Sweden. I said
that last night. On the porch I learned
that my grandmother was raped.
Twenty-three and care-free in Philly
on the L to home. I can carry that
for her. It is not mine, but I claim it.
I wish I’d gone to Texas. I said
that last night. My mother remembers
things differently than most.
Thirty-three and desperate, I cooked
mac’n’cheese for my brother while pills
worked through her system.
The genetics of memory are terrifying.
The DNA of womanhood is heavy.
I should be in Sweden. I realized
that last week. I should be anywhere
else but here, right now and always.