Theresa Darling wrote this poem. An earlier version appeared in Baily’s Beads, the literary journal of University of Pittsburgh, Bradford, in 1996.

Guilt
By Theresa Darling

My mother always believed me. I would say
I was going to Beaty to meet Rosie, but really
I’d meet Lenny, Gregg and Bucky on the path
down by the creek to smoke stolen cigarettes.
I remember coughing, laughing
feeling dizzy, and getting burnt
once; Gregg’s Zippo went haywire and whooooshed
in my face. Singed eyebrows. I told my mother
I’d been baking cookies with Rosie when her old Norge
flared like the one we had in Pittsburgh did
eight years before. Before Paul was born. Before
I became an official soldier of Christ
in the Catholic Church. Before I started
braiding my waist-length hair and wearing
ratty blue jeans. Once there was a dress code. A world
of pastel mints melting at the appropriate pace. My life
was a silver-gray ape evolving to a Stones’ tune until
roused by a single word no longer believed. Hit me
guilt, with all you’ve got. I’m ready
but no longer waiting. The biggest step is up. I’m raving
and climbing. Who cares about what? My mother
has photographs of then and then and then
and only one or two of now. If she holds them tight enough
they will sing their pained memory. They will bleed
and create a new, privileged religion. My mother
will believe them. She will obey
their black-and-white lyrics, throw her hands up in despair
give up on the TV and yes, burn her house down.
……………Some morning soon, my mother will knock at my door.
I will let her in. She will fix me
breakfast, lunch, dinner,
do all my laundry and drink
each and every one of my words
black.