Gentle, not the clicking a metal chain makes at the bottom of a pool
He'd pick up bottles, you'd shower from the rain barrel—
When you'd taken off your necklace and set it aside
Your mother's talk would start, from the spigot it would start going—
She loved you and was gone—she left you a mahjong piece
On a chain so you wouldn't swallow it, so you wouldn't be
Swallowed, like a single firefly into the tall grass—
Mom used to hate the sound of birds
She said it meant she'd been up all night and missed her chance to sleep—
I held the mirror for her to do her lipstick, it had a little mount of brass
And the rain would come and hit the complex especially late June
Summer used to wake up then and turn the whole world bright
Bright green strikes and checks in the glittering pool—
I'd hold the mirror and she'd give me coins for the gumball machine—
She'd kiss me and give me quarters from her pocket