for my mother

What are you now ? Ash, a vine, a por­tion

left to sleep, cry­ing in your sleep.

They want to take your leg.

Your oxime­ter chirps behind you, above you

Ban­dit steals a kiss from the Frog.

We don’t speak.

Neglect is our com­mon tongue. We smoke

and snort our way into the same bed, moth­er

and son, until one sec­ond before the only sec­ond

that counts. If the Snow­man and Fred could see us

from the TV on the wall, they’d choke and chew

each oth­er to the bone. We can win any race

where you have to beg to fin­ish.

3 thoughts on for my mother

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