Somewhere in Northern Ohio, on a farm
my mother is drunk, kissing an open
cut, placing my hands to my sides. 

She is covered in moths. She keeps saying

I am your mother                I am your mother

               The moon is blood;

Wears her clothing inside out. 
Points to the invisible bison— says 
they come for me; my heart
is facing their curled horn.

She screams to the yearling: 

I hate her                    I hate her

                 I hate her!

                                     My mother hates me.

                 The first girl I kissed, the boy 
                 I bought an apartment for, the last
                 girl I kissed, my roommates, my cat, 
                 the grocery store clerk, the botanical
                 gardens, the bee colonies and their honey 
                 all hate me.

I hush her. 

My mother is tired,

                 My mother is my mother.

I am a good daughter. I take 

care of love for the both of us. 

                                  ***

In between the laundry line she flashes
smiles as the tablecloths roll with flame. 
The air, thick, like leather.
Mother is on fire, again.

You must understand, 
I cannot find peace. 

I try to stop her, but I am no good.
I open her mouth with paper gloves
and out comes the red heat.
Listen.
Listen to my heart beat.

The moon is blood. I wake up 
in Northern Ohio with 
a mother who is a mother who is my mother 
who digs a hole in the earth for a dead bird
she finds on the side of the road.

I say, mother, 
the bird does not need a grave.

Everything needs a grave she says. 

Even me. Even you.