a/n: for mother, who slammed the door on daddy for the last time.

O proprietess! it is you to whom i owe the lovely pleasure,
it is you who i can thank for the 17 year old itch,
and its removal, although I would have liked a backrub at birth
and some ointment for this irritation, I think it's time to close up shop.
There is simply nothing more to offer. This year you turn forty.
So celebrate, hang the death noose around your womb,
pull it tighter and tighter as he advances, country person with
his clever tricks, the sun's laughter,
palm full of bananas.

O, my lioness, stop this monkey business! You are my chore,
you are queen of my days, the innumerable days that will hopefully
outnumber the dishes I wash. you should not spend your time on
one knee, peeling off the scabs and picking off the fleas.
give him one good door slam to the face
and he is like spilt milk, all over the floor, curdled,
wet and white and weary.

Dear love, it pains me to know I am that potter's son.
I am that same urn, and though you turn me round and round
I have been molded by those same hands. I am neither concave
nor convex, I fear that I too may just as well be
a slender vial of poison.