Mom, It All Looks So Clear from Up Here

written by Maddie Marks

It’s the little things that scare

me, like telling you why my money’s

gone or why I know what Ms. Zebeckis’s

house looks like from the roof.

I told you it was diner food, gas, winter

air and chiminea smoke in my lungs. At least

it’s not weed, like the girl down

the street. At least I get out, walk, get

better, wave at neighbors passing

in their cars—same loop, Sharlow

up to Canterbury, never past Bullens

where we were afraid to go

when the dog got out.

I told you it was parking tickets, 35 dollar

ones when I leave the car outside the train

station overnight. I crawl back to bed,

and when the first frost hits, tired

mothers wave at each other, kids

toddling down driveways in puffy coats

and ridiculous mittens. I sit up in bed and

watch the cold, pale yellow

wash the sky from behind the evergreens. 

I’m sorry I told you it was condoms, not

weed. ‘Big box,” you said. ‘Must have

been.’ I can’t sit on the roof with a box

of condoms and pull my knees against

my ribs when you look out at Ms. Zebeckis’s

house at 1:42 a.m. I think I saw the squirrel,

alive, before it died in her trash can

in the corner of the yard. Maybe the weed felt

worse than that.