She is not my mother.
My mother is tall, stop traffic beautiful, and a home for crawling and creeping things.
She's not my mother, the lady who laughs and tosses her hair. There's a smudge of $20 lipstick on glossy teeth, but no one has the heart to tell her. You can see her, can't you? She's nervous, wants to make a good impression, needs acceptance lest she spend another night with a $20 bottle of wine.
She's not my mother, she who stumbles then recovers from a fall. My mother's steps are calculated, balanced by insanity, moving toward lust.
She walks past and I know it, though I try not to.
From behind she slips a veil over my head,
ties the knot tight around my neck
and labels the bag "Nothing".
I answered to that name for years on end.
You called me Faith.
You are not my mother.
Written 8-10-2016 / 2:54 am EST