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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