May
10
Why Every Poem I Write is about My Mother
It’s been mother’s day for an hour, where I am &
do you remember telling me to write a poem for you, mommy, but instead I
beat out my own breath with the hard days, kicking
strange within the certained room while you played
safety, safety, for I love you, & you are me, be careful with our distinct way
of speaking & we are, of course, enchanted. And so I slept &
wept in wafers, vanilla-thin, writing paper rings around
your rosy cheeks when I wrapped you in, Rebekah. I can’t always
adventure anymore, mommy, the sense isn’t staying
against my ankles. I think I’m leaking, like you were, when
a daughter, a daughter, she her own & ours, my dream-pool of drawing me
friend, mommy—because I was you.
