Elegy to a living mother
Pity the rhododendrons didn’t rise
from the dirt where a fence
sits in segments growing from earth
Today, I think I’ll ask
the postman if he loves his wife
and the waiter if he’s ever cheated.
I’ll unbind and watch
a letter flutter to the ground: Dear Luke,
I’ve got to stop doing acid on weekdays.
I’ve got to stop walking so slowly past
the psychic who is really a prostitute,
watching her cross legs
beside a billboard.
I held a knife and thought of the oven, I thought
of the bedside
where you won’t rest your head
I stopped eating
& felt my body
go mother you’d be proud
of the way I’m breathing
[one in at a time half out]
mother you said in this life
the stove on