“From my mother I inherited my looks and a tendency to migraine. From my father I inherited an optimism which did not leave me until recently.” Joan Didion
I stole her quietly waiting on the grocer’s line
reading the covers of magazines like a tourist
I stole her nervous hands
her addiction to sweet, soft smells
I stole her short, yellow fingers; her fear
I stole what she generously gave
I stole $15 from her purse, her last $15
spent so quickly, whips of remorse
I smile, opening her varnished music box
desperate for what is inside
I stole her stoicism but not her tearfulness
standing over the frozen soil
I stole her nail biting, the bruises and benign wens trailing her arms
I consider stealing her walking away
from where the grave should have been dug
her passive choices, her hollow body
rides over each crumbling ocean wave
I steal some more money from her wallet.
