MY MOTHER'S NAME IS CATHY
If the sun swings low, I won't name it
bomb. If this is a war,
the last burning oriole will not be
her mouth.
The eye
of the newborn bird
blank beneath the skin
is not mine to keep. Nor is any memory
sticky as a worm
slipping past
the naked gaze.
No, this baby
is already stripped. No mess
of yolk left on its nape. No curtain
of egg to break through.
And my mother's hands at the kitchen sink
will not be made romantic.
This can end. This room
draws in with no wings
furious to receive. There is no violence
and choke of feeding.
I am no cowlick of feathers
refusing mother's spit. I fold
our litany of not-nests, I fold
everything.
None of her fear
born bird, no body feathered
in light.
I've never wanted anything more.
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