What We Do with What We Are
I did not get better.
I got worse.
When the constellations
became intestinal
I knew I had gone too far
in search of mother number one hundred
whose oracles
always end in misunderstanding.
Mothers go sucking jelly
off the night—number seventeen
swims toward him
and him. Number forty-two
hammers a black moon
above the crowded house
where somebody I never knew has died.
Can you find me beside my
body in the dark? Number ninety-nine
loves unconditionally.
If I could I’d kill her twice.
Oh I see you’re all still here?
Please don’t console me anymore.
A life ago you could have grown me.
Your girlhood tattoos
learn to fade in spite of permanence.
I kiss them, every one.
You watched me grow apart,
and here I am intact.
I’ve made love. I’ve made you love
me even early in the morning
for a chance at understanding.
