Shattered mirror

There is a part of you that is sick. You’re reminded of it
when you visit your mother. It’s the critical voice
that never shuts up. The belief that
your way is the only logical choice. The controlling
suggestion that shapes our mutual experience. Ideas, mine-

about how to help
things breathe into joyful living (isn't it better
for everyone?). If I erred,

Please tell me it rolls
of my back more organically
than my mother’s. She’s not that bad
really. She’s
having a hard time.

My dad is seeing somebody new, can’t help himself
from oozing with happiness, that blossomed
in a place that was rotting, albeit
with candied hurt. And what

of my relationship? Flashing between bliss
and boredom, between fire and ice. I tell her she doesn’t
inspire me. She calls me mean. I can’t blame her. Our momentum
has its own motor, so we grasp at each other like we might lose
our very lives if we let go. I carry my mom in me

too (that sharp acid feeling in my mouth). I'm not
going to change if I replace one smart, thin mint
for another. Patience slips
through my partner's fingers and we feel at home

in one another’s arms.

A poem, at least

What is a poem? Emotion leaks onto the page, a metaphor. Extended massive orgasm. You lean into the idea rather than recoil. Revelation. Inspiration is something I long for. Obviously, I want such fun and games. You implore me to demand my full sexual expression. Should it be such a request? I cook to nourish. I dance to feel. What do you do with your time? How to you sew the seeds of progress or beautify on this planet? So you used to live in a place far away and help people… That is incredible. I wish that you would do something Today, something real. Make an imprint on this earth like a stamp, A step that cannot be erased, undone. Show me how you invest in the moment, Create something that didn’t exist the hour before. Wet my panties. Make me ache. Live through art.