iv.

mother / daughter

The worst, I think,

Is the way my mother

Looks at me.

When I walk through

The screened-in door

Past the threshold worn

Bare by old dogs' nails,

She stands stock-still

Alone in the hall, dish towel

Clenched tight between fists.

With my hollowed gaze,

Cocaine-rotted teeth,

Pock-marked cheeks and

Black tracking cuff

Locked to my bony ankle;

And her, the exact opposite –

With freshly washed hair,

White pearls at her neck,

Fingernails manicured beige –

She is everything

That I am not.

It is her eyes which say

What she thinks,

That she doesn't recognize

Who stands before her –

And it's clear to me that

She doesn't want to.