He spoon-feeds me riddles to my distaste; I chew them slowly
which blister like fire going down
consider: he bleaches blue walls and turns real pain suburban
not he loves me just that we microdose domestic
and so I wear a ring
I inspect my polish nails on porch as kids play
“but Mama’s not gonna help me; everything she does is slow
and Mama doesn’t care,” the kids whine
he dies.
I guess that qualifies as forever—I think
one lifetime was enough.
His riddles die. The heart monitor screamed him dead, not me.
Consecrated ground regresses to earthly
& laminated mahogany to splintered banisters
“I bet you Mother won’t even cry” say my grown-up
children. “Mother doesn’t even care.”
At sixty-four I march down garnished in black
neither screaming nor crying. Watering the roots.
and [pain exits suburbia] too.