Mama by Cathy Guo

watches a series alone, the nuclear family
of the sandy Television show is unhappy, loud,
loving. She is wearing lace for nobody
again and snapping her teeth against
sunflowers, Mama’s skin did not always fall
into folds like they do now.
I think my father is
but at this age, nobody can be sure
if he left a decade ago or not, if he
comes home on the weekends or not, or if he
drove me to school every day last week.
Perhaps not.
my best bet is that he’s been gone
for years
my breakfast eggs smell like my
father, so do the deer tracks in the woodlands
of beyond and the living room furniture, so does every
thin neon lining inside my pillowcase but that doesn’t
mean anything.