Red hair and white sand
She was always drawn to the shoreline.
And cheap diners that are probably full of roaches
Anything that was self-detonating.
When I reach the southern edge of Brooklyn, I remember home
Row houses, telephone wires, and bruised purple sunsets.
I always used to say that I’m nothing like my mother,
But she’s etched into every crack and crevice
In my eyes, my wrists, my determination.
Like her mother, father, sister, and brother, aunt and uncle.
I never knew who addiction would kill first,
Her or me.
I can tell its weight without ever touching a substance.
Empty streets echo it, cities on water.
Coast, boardwalk, salt-misted air.
White ceramic mugs and aggressive driving.
As much as I see her in the mirror
I know we’ll never be the same.