tire tracks in wet gravel
beside the rusted dumpsters
a crow standing on a crushed paper cup
watching the morning come up gray over the lakefront works
here the asphalt holds everything
motor oil rainwater small scraps of foil
i remember walking this alley with my mother
when i was seven years old
she held my hand so tight her knuckles were white
we were looking for empty aluminum cans in the weeds
to trade for bus fare back to the room
she had a tear in the heel of her winter boot
and every three steps her foot would slip in the slush
but she never let go of me
she was singing an old country song under her breath
a melody with no words left in it
we found six cans behind the auto body shop
and she laughed like we had dug up gold
she wiped the dirt off my cheek with the corner of her sleeve
her skin smelled like lake wind and stale coffee
she told me we were going to make it all the way home
thirty years later i walk the same stretch of gravel alone
the auto shop is gone now replaced by a chain link fence
and a brand new condo rising six stories into the fog
my mother has been gone twelve winters
her winter boots buried under six feet of steel town earth
i sit down on the curb in the quiet damp air
and i press my bare palms against the cold wet concrete
i can still feel the exact shape of her thumb pressed into my wrist
holding me fast against the dark
i am sitting in the dirt of the land she tried so hard to keep me safe on
and i am screaming her name into the exhaust of the morning traffic
and i am crying because the air is cold and i am still here
and i am still her daughter walking back to the room
—lyra moon (somewhere a woman is teaching her daughter the names of streets she hopes she will never need to know)
august 2, 2026