Week 11

i

I never trusted

my Mama's affections.

Teeth-grinding hugs

and cocodile tears

she believed in.

It was a treat to be ill;

fevers were best.

One hundred and four degrees

got me genuine concern

and tepid ice baths.

Those burned.

I learned to ignore

Mama's "bad mother" lament

that surfaced when I'd request

casseroles or

evenings at home:

things she couldn't provide.

ii

I grew up

with red paper eyelids

oragamied into wetland cranes,

soggy feet, wingless, and lashing

mascara dripped feathers:

remnants of someone else's breakfast.

Because the thing is

processed wood pulp comes apart

when wetted, so

my eyelids fell off

and I was better to watch

for more reptile smiles,

alluring.

iii

Mama, look--

sweaty palm heart

beat too fast

spring fever less rest

slept caviar eyes

open. I had to. Maybe

boys, booze, bud

would self-soothe

for a minute, but

iv

shh.

I have an avacado tree

that I grow, windowsill

toothpick mason jar style.

It leaves, too.

I'm sewing peppermint leaf

to skinned ginger root:

my new waterproof eyelids,

organic, can close.

I find myself

telephone ringing, requesting again

for her company.

"Mama, come stay with me.

"Evenings at home you can see

"I smoke, take meds for my heart

"and so what

"if we've come up short of a doctor spock story.

"I like our own version
"with damp cheeks, caffeine hands,

"veiny, sure, but
"both our O Positive blood."