Last night the boys went to the

terrace—a bottle of gin, a coke, a large sprite, cans

of tonic water, Lana Del Rey’s Diet

Mountain Dew on speaker and nothing

else. Nothing. As in after the song was over

—twice, perhaps—none of us said a thing—

everyone quiet around eachother, even the drunk ones who’d struggled

taking the stairs only moments ago.

Now all of us reminiscing about our mothers—

as women who always fed us

before sitting themselves down for lunch

and for dinner,

and now we live in hostels, away

from our homes; and in some homes, still the absence

of mothers—and one says, tearing the blanketed

quiet of heavy January air

—they say our sons take from us all our flaws

like the shaving mirrors

from our Sunday routines, say

will mine understand grief exactly the way I do?