I wish I had spent more time writing postcards to my mother
Telling her I was having a good time
I would remember the exact time and place of the day
When I began to lie to her.
I would read them being shipped off when she could no longer read them
And haunt the skeletons of the same person that I was
The papery residue of my mind powdered over
The rising prices of the stamps.
The only difference would be the varied faces,
The bronze red and rust yellow.
Every other word would be from the same person.
I will see myself physically growing taller and more buttery,
But I will find words unchanging, solitary, windless…
Here my birthdays have loomed,
Here every year,
I have passed by my day of death without notice.