Mother wears running shoes up in heaven,
holds all the dead babies, miscarriages
and dogs we lost, all the cats we had,
pours tall drinks for Papa and Aunt Rosie.
Aunt Rosie sings songs, plays ukulele.
The dead dance and watch us, just waiting
to raise hairs on our necks, put sick feelings
in our stomachs, yell, No! at the right time.
Mother sings along, wondering why she
can’t find Uncle Eddie, her father, or
Aunt Jackie. She thought they’d all hook up like
the old days, maybe play some cards, like spades.
You get it all back in spades, I plan to
tell her. It all just comes right back in spades.