from the archives

My mother is my child

The motherless mother who tore out her throat
for her children--I cannot, even, understand her love for me.
She recognizes only my face.
In her childish simplicity, she remains slick and uncatchable
as plate glass.

I love her only as if she were my child,
confused, wandering through that big house immersed in
her chatter and flashing television programmes.
Yes, mother, you
are an enigma, proudly holding out your
high-school yearbook for my approval.
Homecoming queen.
Your eyes, eager for my praise,
look so young. was life what you wanted?

Though I cannot, truly, forget your age with
all these cancers that threaten
to eat you, as your mother was eaten. They strike panic
down into my protective heart at night.
I wake, wet with sweat, here in my city,
apart from you and dumb with terror
please don’t take my baby, don’t take my baby.