I.
had it been easy,
you would’ve done it years ago.
bit off the tail
and spit without chewing.
you might’ve husked your veins
with the fork that you write with
and unraveled your wicker hands,
had it been easy.
II.
but you locked yourself to a shore
beyond a river seeping
into salted roots.
same shore you took me to, mom,
where you shaped my practiced spasms
in the likeness of those roots.
and when you held my hand, i tugged.
closer, i clung and pulled your veil
between my nails.
Mama, you raised me when i needed you least.
there was something tender about how you abandoned me,
you must’ve learned growing on salt-sown earth.
harvest in hand, you’d remind me to eat something.
i had been eating all day,
for as long as you had been cooking.
III.
now, following prep instructions:
place your mirror, transverse.
inspect odor and color,
trace grooves across folds,
score the rind,
and cut.
your dinner comes preportioned and sealed.
afterwards, under moonlessness,
friends eat your dinner and walk you home.
they speak inherited recipes
while they crust your eyes over.
but you still see yourself just fine:
too heavy for the chair,
too light for the bed.
your wicker body’s shadow dragging ahead,
pliable and easy.
https://old.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1t63mox/whatre_you_lookin_at/okfdpm9/ https://old.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1t61guh/if_my_love_could_be_counted_in_dimes/okfcng9/