It’s Been Three Years


It’s been three years


since I made the case to go free.


The house I lived in was a genuine life desert.


My mother will never know


I recovered from so many secrets.


The hush of a secret making systems,


remaining over water.


My sobriety,


like extreme weather,


my attempt to measure


my life in shades


of blue numbness.


My body,


even your uncle

reminds me


of my body.


I wanted my father to take to the street


with his crusader heart,


find me in my drunken stupor.


Just three years ago


I picked apart a family inside me


when there was not a family inside me.


My mother will never know

that I am more body bag


than fire pit.

That sometimes when I hold my son


I want some other version


of my life happening.


I mean, what is a mother


doing inside me?


Do not tell my children


I can’t remember what it feels


like to not want to wander


into a lake swiftly and


accurately.    I need more black cherry


and citrus     more mother


Please do not tell my children


the word mother


this half empty closet


a possibility       a poverty

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