birthdays are usually private parties
where my mother empties her whole heart
one of the few occasions she cries
prays that her entire life’s work remain unsullied
what this work is or draws from, i’m still not sure
but i think of ruins constantly
scaffolding as unaided as her spite
anger she wears like a shawl
one time, almost cutting off my stream
of speech when she aimed a kitchen knife at me
sometimes, i wonder how life would have been
if she had somehow perfected her aim, her anger
taken control of this rain that poured heavily on her
rain that bent her small frame into enduring
when instead she became a mother who settled for the itch of things
grew domestic with objects to be pickled and forgotten
on this night of many nights, she talks about her childhood
a story she swears began only after the war
one where home remains a simmering stew, and aging
implies bifurcation, a bidirectional look at the same things
part of loving this mother is alleging
that everyone’s mother ages backwards
and friends are the animals howling
laughing at my favourite jokes
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