Part 1

It could be worse,
it could be worse,
it could be worse,

I type with one hand
a mantra that has a hard time
believing itself.

My mother tells me,
"Talk to your aunt, lie to her,
tell her her son will be alright.

Tell her you heard on TV
that there'll be a cease-fire
so he could cross back to her.

She'll believe you,
she wants so much to believe.
She's tired of crying."

She hands me the phone,
my throat dries up again;
it's hard to lie to a crying woman.

My mother tells me,
"I'm all out of clean underwear,
I didn't think it'd be so bad.

When I was in my twenties
I could run far," she says,
"with my children flailing under my arms.

But I'm not so young anymore.
Son, don't tell anyone,
but I celebrated thirty a long time ago.

I don't have another war in me;
I didn't think I needed one."
She takes a long puff at her cigarette.

"One can start a new life only once,"
she says, "and I've had mine.
I'll see you in the fall," she says,

"I'll see you in the fall."