The Unfinished Mother
Remember the yellow room, she says.
Bed of daisy blue linens.
Small chair in the window of sunlight, wooden.
Her favorite, most remarkable memory,
just in a day or an unknown time.
Her mother sent her away. A never born.
If only abortions had been legal.
My mother. Unloved raspberry of a fetus
become girl-child among ambivalent trees & dust.
She searches for a box to hide herself:
Some place to insert the most common letter.
A good size to hold something disposable,
or at least unwanted.
What is the distance between home
and a mother?
Today’s horoscope tells me
that you are a demon—I believe this.
The brief impossibility of myself
being mistaken: you exist.
Even in the absence of skin,
the silent passing of bones—
You stay soft and incomplete.
Last night, I dreamt a closet full of spiders.
I hear you.
Leaning towards my doorway,
Consistent as sunlight—coming and going.
I am a daughter of sacrifice.
Alone, I search for the comforting sounds—
The surprise of laughter,
some sign of passing electric noises in the road.
And I wonder: In the dark of the other room,
what songs does your bed sing?