GIRL MOTHER

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.