what is this half-food rage
and half-girl , thick ploughing anger
that i feel?
what is this sadness in my fingers when i try to touch you
while you speak into a nonchalant part of the universe?
mother,
why does it hurt to remember anything about you
even when you are alive?
mother,
you kill and sing lullabies with the same obese grace
and stones in your acid voice
mother,
you drip in dreams with monstrous crying
and the un-scalping of my sane self
always, keening like a middle-aged trauma
to the daughter's soul.
mother, you were a child once
where did she go?
mother,
I have no one, but you
and I am alone I know
and even so
this day-death and night ritual of story-telling to myself
never aches less.
mother,
i need to protect myself from me
and you.
and father's blows
and his silent violence
now, serrated by diabetes and suicidal fantasies
mother,
i am dying and so are you
but there will be no heaven for us
not in this world or yours.
mother,
you should have killed me fast,
instead of this slow death
with your fast-speaking phone contacts
and late-night pounding on my door
to feed me some inconsistent fear
mother, you are an angel of Hindu myth
and the woman that the child in my mind fears
despite those degrees in psychology and
your immense youth that never prepared you
for the invasion of my soul upon your world.
mother, this weight i carry is so large and
vast with disease
mother, i'm afraid there is no cure
for my luck or birthmark or life
that you gave me
with the best of intentions
on my days wrapped in fevers
without you to smell and hold.
mother,
if i was garbage,
you should have named me so.
