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.
