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.