Did your mother love you?
Oh, take mine, take me,
take these memories, the sweet ones.
take five. take sick and unshowered,
pajamas on the third day of wear,
eyes flooded with tears at black beauty,
at ginger, at her soft nose and her ruined
body. take her voice, her hand on my
trembling shoulders, 'let's get out
of those pajamas.'
take six. take curled into her side, head nestled
into the ocean of her sweatshirt, her
hair falling in my mouth as she read,
tom bombadil, tom bombadil.
take her warmth, her solidness
on that couch we don't have anymore
in the place it hasn't been for years.
take fifteen. take the high of winning
for the first time, that little chestnut
pony and the nicest
helmet i've owned. take her crying,
asking for a picture of us together,
take the way she was there through
every ride. take her interest, her
involvement, in every sport.
take eighteen. take shoving her away.
take crossing my arms against her
and forcing her, cloying, from
my body. ripping out
my own spine to be rid of
her, crushing my soul like
an overripe peach. take her refusing
to leave, take her struggle to understand,
holding my sticky guts in anguish.
take nineteen. take stumbling back
into liking her, a birthday weekend
of her crying because she
didn't have to sort through the
distorted pulp of me anymore.
because I was happy. take
coming home after an agonizing
week or so of sweat and
saliva and lies, lacing it all
together until hugging her undoes
it all. take laying across her chest for
the first time in years.
take loving her again.
