your feet pound the faux-wood floor
pace, pick up, forget as right foot steps
chobani, strawberry pieces, red
animal rage so strong, little man
your anger, your fire, you
that you found along the path of love
now as it casts stones at your son
does it feel good to burn, mama?
you gulp sour spit at the sight of what you said
in spite and sorry not fit to be a mom, not meant to be a mom, why did i decide to mom
like this
before the buddha on the couch
you remember your plan to enlighten
who the fuck has time for that
creative mom with self-scarring wounds is surviving, self-medicating
making space to make it better
chuckle
exhale smoke
your son was ready, wanted to be gone
didn’t flinch in seeing you stay there, behind
but does she have the bubble wand, mama?
she does, my sweet son, she does
Upper Peninsula, Michigan, USA // November 2020
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