cunt. bomb.
Coming Soon: February 2019
The Mother
I never hurt nobody but myself and that’s nobody’s business but my own.
-Billie Holiday


I haven’t written a poem in your likeness for some time.
I tried.  I took the broom and beat the cobwebs.
Lit one hissing cigarette after hissing cigarette,
let a dish fall to the floor, a porcelain scream.
I let the quiet shattering happen but could not eek it out.
Then I thought of this. You the young mother,
a knotted belt at your waist, slim and attractive
in photos.  Your teeth gleaming and straight
like a string of pearls.
You hosted one birthday party in honor
of me my whole life. I was four years young
and it was a California Easter Sunday.
The kind of Sunday people move to the West Coast for.
You drew caricatures of rabbits and fashioned
yellow tufts of baby ducks.  Dressed me in
my best cut-off jeans and plaited my hair.
Posed me in front of the cake, the cousins,
the wrapped gifts.
Picture after picture reveals that I was happy.
Mother, you were perfect as a plum.
Slicing the cake. A knife just a knife in your hand
and nothing more.
I am ten years older than you then.
A whole decade and more of misdirected men
have come and gone for me, a daughter
of my own. Many birthdays since that I 
care less to remember.
And it took me this long to notice
the one thing missing from those
Easter photos that long ago day.
The father.
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