BECKY

by Phil Hart

They all remembered her after.
Her always smiling face and cheerful
Disposition contagious laugh
Good humor and waitressing
Skills that made a grilled cheese
I dunno, really really-special.
So now she's gone-
dead buried dirt covered
mound up in the cemetery
three plastic roses from her
kitchen table stuck in the ground
faded from 21 mother's days ago
when her queer son Charley
came home to die from cock
injected virus and stopped
along the way to get a mother's
day cake for Becky and stuck
the plastic flowers in it for fun-
a joke between them.
Charley's buried out there too
nobody remembers him the way
they do Becky the cheerful constant
waitress balancing those plates taking
orders for hash browns and eggs
over easy sunny side up scrambled
and lighting up everyone's breakfast lunch
sometimes dinner and special parties.
Yes, she walked to work, no car
every friday putting another check
in the mail to the hospital for Charley's
bill that will never get stamped n paid
in full making her sigh at the mailbox
each week on her way to work
feeding those she detests-
hated, whatever, her days filled with
memories of her son's beautiful body
so graceful slender high-assed
ballet dancer like moving so quietly
through life and her memory.
They remember Becky's swift service,
swift as when she happened into Charley's
room when he was 17 and seeing his best friend
on top kissing naked as the first days of life
and had to turn and pretend she didn't
know how special and beautiful her son had
become so early in life.
They remember Becky
those dirty fucking people
with too much money not to
be repulsed if they saw her small
dirty apartment with sometimes hot
water sometimes heat sometimes
everything they would back away
in horror and retreat to fancy
whatevers they called their own.
While back in the kitchen Lou
of Lou's Diner-fuck him very much-
had a thing for Beckytit he called it
when he grabbed it for a double squeeze,
her left breast always bruised when
looking in the mirror so when Charley
came home from san fran sick she told him
as they ate cake with blue and pink
frosting together at the table so he
found Lou's car and poured sugar in
the tank for her and it made her happy.
She's under all that dirt now thanks
to charley who had insurance for a plot
and got a double for him and the friend
he was naked with back there at 17 but
that friend died in the sands somewhere
in a middle eastern desert, shot they
said by friendlies so he never made it
to san fran with Charley or to the dirt
in his fucking disgusting hometown.
They remember Becky's always clean
white apron that she carried home to wash
n dry iron so she wouldn't feel like a poor
fucking loser slinging food to assholes
which is what she did almost all her life
while they sat there chewing, dribbling
down their chins talking with their mouths
more than full stuffed like pigs
making noises like hogs at the slop-
so she kept it clean
cleaner than they were.
They remembered her
she remembered them
them of her Charley's age
her Charley's class in high school
the ones that called him faggot
queer fudge packer laughing at his
graceful walk teasing Charley's now
dead friend making poking in their mouths
for cute cocksucking imitations and she
spilled coffed on one of them once on
purpose but he never knew probably
that it came from Charley and Charley's
friend he lay together in that bed
with naked and loving.
Here's to you Becky.
Here's to your son.
On this Mother's Day.