Why They Can Call My Mother "Mary"

 

Larry’s knuckles were bitten,

sometimes scratched, to bone,

scabs never healing before a fresh bite,

skin screaming to be picked.

He must have drunk liters

of his own blood, slowly,

in thirty-eight years

of stunted, aimless walking. 

Here tonight, with the rest

of Mom’s “Group,” to bowl. 

My brother and I sit, avoiding eyes,

embarrassed for the ragged shuffles,

awkward laughs – the gutterball

evening.  Mom gets up

as Larry selects a ball.

She reaches for slumped shoulders

and positions him to roll.

She covers those torn hands

with her own, to help him.