GIRL MOTHER

Hard feet
from days of playing barefoot

Legs stretched past the limits of the bed

I scan the body I made
for signs of freshness

Forearm made of baby meat

I clutch it close
claim it
the last drumstick on the bird

“Five more minutes”
with flat authority,
a substitute teacher or big brother in charge.
And raps her thigh
with three quick taps, almost involuntary
a private cheer
for the success of using grown-up voice,
of checking the clock.

it’s carpool line
and i’m running towards the woods
i’m running with glee,
small girl, two braids smiles my way and says
“what are you doing”
i run when im happy, she sees

I didn’t know I was moving
and I was no longer moving
she caught me being little
“lets build a castle to the sky”

Once mom moved out, we started snack dinner
salami, instant oats, chunks of cheese and frozen pancakes,
a 24/7 marathon of my favorite foods.

She had a house, apartment really, where we sat for dinner
two plates, two forks, i never used mine
but she made me set it down,
“Set the table”
and sometimes, she’d make me pick up my shoes
and put them in a spot.
“a fresh start” she’d say.

I made a home, with manga-tiles
for a little toy dinosaur and a plastic axolotl
they lived together in a pen without walls
to save money.

When momma came back home to the big house
I heard “things are gonna change around here” , and her voice was joking but then
she made me pick up my shoes.

When mom moved out, dad switched to instant coffee.
No more big black pot sputtering in the mornings
No sweet coffee smell
Just a spoon in a cup and pile of dirt crystals

Mom’s back now and she
drinks instant coffee too.

i wrote this about 16 years ago, at age 16. (don’t check my math)

The world’s a plastic playground

the children merely

drama players

comrade slayers

whispering who is

fatter, gayer

rolling backwards on three wheels

puffing air, and digging heels

and every days a diaper draft

of favoritism, nepotism

slang and color create the schism

second grader skepticism

snack is wack if skin is black

but white kids guzzle coke out back

bite the bitter bias pill

swig the sharp and fizzy chill

healthens turn to healthy slaves

of wealth and means

indie scenes

jaded dames with lucky genes

find friend with familiar face

learn the lingo, know your place

but

childhood chaos lingers still

in every shiver

in every chill

two men, treading heavy. thick legs churning underwater. working overtime to keep their broad shoulders above the break. bumping big elbows.

i choose one and swim to his ear to spill the secret: big things can float, too. barges and ice caps.

He taped over the wall

where he smiled with the same woman. She was blond and busty and prettier than the people I knew.

I gagged and choked down vomit. He acted like he didn’t notice.

He lived behind the only Roy Rogers in the county. I think of it every time I pass by it.

He sang a song about going out to California. It was actually sweet. I would stream it on Myspace and imagine he was singing to me.

His friends gave me beer. He said if anyone asks, I go to community college.

I gagged and choked down vomit. He acted like he didn’t notice.

i threw an impossible rubix cube

into orbit

launched it straight to the moon after hours, days, years of twisting it

with you

we’d be lining it up over here

then bleeding out the other side

You’ve seen my tampons in the trash

on every moon since 2010.

I was beached on a beer soaked coach

when you scooped and plopped me in your frat house bedroom

there were christmas light and tons of chairs

and a scull carved into the headboard.

I quit on you

I wanted to find a room of my own.

I never owned the pirate theme, I’m tired of hooks and knots and mermaids

My walls are white

My floors are clean

revised for spoken word

When they taught us that liquor was
“trouble in a bottle.”

Our young minds pictured
noxious clouds of poison
black magic potions
brewed to kill us.

But I’ve come to know addiction,
and she’s nothing more sinister than a child
pulling at the hem of my skirt.

I know her. I feed her,
like any good mom.
I’m always strapped with snacks,
nibs and bumps of things
to keep her busy.
Granola bars.
Fidget toys.

She’s getting so big,
she knows my passcode now.

I’ll find blurry photos
with cut-off heads.

She’s gotten so good at driving this thing,
it’s scary.

And everytime she takes the wheel, I hope, I pray
she doesn’t button mash us into disaster.

Addiction leaves a sticky film
at the bottom of your purse.
Six dozen lollipops,
unwrapped, distilled.

(I carry lollipops to bribe the beast.)

Single mom.
I come complete
with baggage.

I can hold it on the hip.
I can strap it to my back.
Hell,
I can hold it
in the blood.

Addiction is another mouth to feed

a whining child

gnawing at your heels

tugging at the hem of your skirt

We carry snacks now

Nibs and bumps of things to keep her busy

drug and disease and child free not me

Single mom, I come complete with baggage

I can hold it on the hip, or on my back

I can hold it in the blood