Conversations I Hope to Never Have With My Mother

We were apples on a tree, we say

Waiting to be picked

I was talking to you today

Forgetting that the clock tock-ticked

As we pieced together our lives

Indecent idioms and gross generalizations

Aside, we'll confess

How many times today

We have lied, today we'll

Pick apart our lives

We can forget, she said

About the four-inch silver heels

and we know We'd like to

forget we've read

Of lace-covered heroines and

Their flower infested fields

Where they seem to

Spend most of their paper lives

And cut us with their

overused metaphorical knives