The M(other)

COHORT 5

She taught me/

To sip the juice that pools

on the surface of a fresh-cut peach

but if I stop 

to think for 

a moment,

She tugs at my leash/ slugs

Me with a slew 

of gut-punch what

is that, and who

and how are

all of these me, and not me?

She locks me in a gilded room/

walls covered in paintings,

light tinted sterile blue/

When I approach the frames 

I can’t help but notice

they recede from me-

I invest in novelty/

I’m constantly swapping my surroundings 

out. In here,

Everything whirls

and turns on me like

a spinning top/ and I’m

the point that doesn’t move 

(but I’m

still trying to stop.) She

Assures me that I’m not alone,

the windows here are wide/

(but the windows are just mirrors and there’s nowhere here to hide)

(Our Lorde and savior once wrote: 

“Maybe the internet raised us,

Or maybe, people are jerks”)

She tells me a good film, a good piece of art,

is paced with proper potency and smoke breaks;

moments to ache and then

digest. She doesn’t tell me that nicotine

actually does give you a buzz, along 

with (still, after all these years and black lung

campaigns), a sense of immovable

coolness; an air of 

je m'en fiche de vivre

which is decidedly cooler than

je ne sais quois

to the point where suicidal tendencies 

have become nothing but a meme,

and Lexapro, nothing but a daily hug. 

She’s funny. She makes me laugh.

And laughter makes life worth living. 

She passes me laughter in plastic bottles

slipped through the cat-hatch in the doorway. 

(everything small enough for me to swallow)

(everything begging to be even smaller)

Make the main course a movie. A side of porn and politics. 

(everything pulling the brainpulses of pleasure)

(everything pulling your leash)

She blows on my soup when it gets too hot/ 

she stews and then dumps it 

down the kitchen sink/

she asks me how i’m doing/

doesn’t wait for a reply/

tells me/

You’re fine

You’re fine,

You’re fine.