the two-framed globe that spun into a score
mother sees
crouch, crumbling
a compass spun
in on itself,
a dashed dream, the
not-image of
an age ago's
imagining.
i see
stuck indecision,
the tiptoe nosetip
skirting of edges,
the ache for what
cannot be given,
what selfish things
i must keep to myself.
mother sees
me birth on
a page the things
i don't bare
to her who
birthed me.
i see.
a process in the weather of the heart
ventrickle
aiourghtta
some cardiovascular
conundrumming,
heartstartsharpbeat.
and, from his fork, a dog among the fairies
tastes better than
a donkey.
who'd eat that kind
of jackass shit anyway?
chump munching,
slurp gulp.
bless this if-food
we're about to par-
take.
amen,
pass the biscuits.
or better yet -
cake.
Do not brother me, nor, as you climb
make sure to point out
the hand-holds you,
in your wisdom and
fancy reaching, were so
gracious to find.
please, rush up
and tell me all the
ways i never
followed you right.
you the daughter,
the firstborn,
and i the blacksheep
teenage boy. i'll
trade you bodies or
her opinion of you.
i'll trade you
whatever just to
pass from
this view.
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