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untitled
June 28, 2013
The ghost of my mother
has a face of old porcelain.
Sometimes she loved me too,
like past lovers and fathers-
epidurals of life.
But I am her warden,
I have turned her into a jailhouse Plath
and I can only ever feel apologetic.
Her love comes in frantic gashes,
lashes to the cheek
and a smile to make a mako shiver.
She told me that someday I would be cool and sad
like her and she says it so bitterly
but it is all that I want to be:
sterilized.
© Andrew M., Apple Valley, MN
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