My mama lives on the other side of the clouds.

I be looking up and talking

I ask her questions like:
What should I do?
What am I going to do?
What would you do?

And she doesn’t answer. Guess she can’t hear.

My mama is a fairy that sleeps in Dorsey Miller Cemetery
Along with the ‘other’ part of my family.
My Great grandma
My Grandma
My mama’s brother
My mama
and the baby, who I called Kevin.

All spread out, under the sod.

But my mama is a fairy or a queen or a princess.
That’s all I could conjure.
Pretty sure she smells like Jean Naté
Or that crumbly English Rose stuff old women use in a bath
Or Miss Cool setting lotion
That’s all I can conjure.

I want to ask her what it’s like.
If she wishes she could reach down
and pluck me from the disasters I create.
If God calls her in for the instant replay and looks at her disapprovingly.

If she replies to God “Well, you only gave me a few years to work with her.”

My mama is a picture in Kodachrome.