The Mother in the Mansion
I want you to create something beautiful, she says
stiff fingers sliding up the railing of these porcelain
stairs. She cups her hands over my face - mother, why
am I not enough?
I fell asleep inside someone else once; forbidden boy
climbing the slippery cuts on my windowsill to bring
me to this place. This beauty. This surrogate mother at
She takes pills; swallows them and doves carry her sad
song to me - across the halls of this mansion, where I lay
with him. Thistle and weeds, she canvassed a wedding gown
of pearls and her son tattooed rings on me - over my eyes,
in between my thighs. I'm his now.
Daughter, is her word for me - and wife is his. I linger,
blinded by the shouts. An introduction to the morning,
and an interlude to the shadows, (his arms.) I've been
split into two formal degrees of myself. How can I love
the lost feeling of happiness?