Poetry

There is no Mother, a man said

sex comes and goes, a light / switched on and off

At the red light / I can see inside

The street signs / appear and disappear / one diagnosis at a time.

Her song was the black throat of the chickadee, / hopping from limb to limb

I do not want you to be brave, my son. / Not in the way of men

my own grief / left by the door like an umbrella

the pain was inherited, like / consignment howls

their breath, my breath.

Back when I smoked, I’d rise too, / any excuse to glow in the dark.

“That blanket’s never going to give you milk,” / I tell the cat