and pictures won’t bite

at my heart.

All at once the tears I

didn’t cry when Lizzie

went into the hospital

pour out right then,

on that riverbank.

I cry like someone I

love has died. I cry

with big gasping sobs,

sobs that make

my whole body shake from pain.

When I can’t cry anymore,

I gather my courage

and go home to see

my momma.

108.

Where have you been?

Momma says.

It’s been hours since I left.

At first

I don’t say anything.

This whole way from

the river I’ve been

thinking that I can say

something to Momma,

say something about Liz

and the diary

and the things that I read.

But when I see her standing

there in the living room,

I feel like I am going

to throw up again.

I asked you, Where have you been?

Momma says.

I wanted to go and

see my Lizzie,

to tell her we’re bringing

her home Monday,

and you have

made us too late

to do anything.

Momma stretches,

her arms going up

over her head.

Her shirt creeps up a bit

and I see

a line of tanned belly,

her belly ring,

a bit of a new tattoo

down low.

I look away.

Somehow,

when I open my

mouth, words come out.

How could you?

I say.

My voice shakes,

that’s true, but I’m

saying something.

In fact,

everything shakes on me.

My guts,

my knees,

my lips.

But I am saying

something.

Momma looks at me,

then goes to close the curtains

on this trailer

the smells of us

living so close.

What the hell

are you talking about?

she says,

her voice careful.

I read the diary,

I say.

Momma’s back is to me,

but I see her pause,

almost stumble

in her shutting

out the world from our home.

I read the diary,

I say again,

and this time I’m

really afraid.

Afraid of Momma who isn’t

a thing that I thought

she was,

though now that I put my mind to it,

I’m not sure what I believed

about her.

How could you?

I say again.

Momma turns,

starts toward me,

barefoot on the linoleum,

her feet patting out a light sound.

She isn’t even close

to me, but still I flinch.

Hope,

she says.

Her voice is soft. Singsongy.

It’s not what you think.

I try to make my mouth work.

I am so scared. So scared.

Because she

does not even deny it. She could

deny it.

But she doesn’t. She

just says,

It’s not what you think.

I can’t think.

She’s right about that.

The confusing part of thinking.

She’s right, I’m thought-less.

Momma watches me.

Does she see me hesitate?

Does she see me falter?

My mouth is open.

No words come out now.

There is

nothing in the air

between us.

Except Lizzie.

Momma starts to turn away

and I see a smile

about to come to her lips.

Not what I think?

I make myself say it.