For some time my mother suffered vertigo
while I swept things beneath the mountains.
She’d visit me in the summers.
She’d fly halfway across the country
just to cook me breakfast.
I made lists of everything I could:
The past stations that still flicker on the radio.
The hearts I’ve unhollowed.
The names I knew forming stones below the water.
She’d bring me shirts from back east.
We’d walk beside famous western rivers.
I’ll tell you now, I don’t know how to live
everywhere I am wanted.
When I pick up the phone to tell her anything,
the wind blows between each ring.