Cyndi Lauper in the living room,
my mother cooking liver in the kitchen.
I was staring at the sky through the blinds.
At five and six and seven, the song again
during laps in gym class, pausing a second
before running counterclockwise.
Knowing that being a girl was temporary
but I would remember the empty stage
we ran toward and away from.
The phone never ringing,
the moon hiding its lover
the sun even from itself —
at least someone got to walk in it.
A woman lies on the sand.
Mama, who never wanted
a husband, only to climb
mountains and more mountains,
married my poor father.
All those years in a line.
Her once beautiful hands
weathered like maps folded
over and over again,
polishing artificial hearts
of their grit until they shined.
She saved her worries
for the middle of the night.
In the middle of my life
at the end of our call
she tells me to enjoy life,
to have fun.