my mother died and left me her menopause. i am sweating, unsteady. Erratically consistent like the rapidly changing tide, i can love you and hate you in the same day dragging down the details. forgetting your name in frustation. my body heats like an oven and turns off like a light.
my mother died and left me her maternal tendencies. caught catching a crumb from a peer’s facial hair without word. i wipe your face and require you be careful leaving your apartment each morning. i have taken to worrying about night travel. i sit in my room and read the paper. i play with my cats. my only wish now is that you find love.
my mother died and left me homeless. i have a reason for not showering, for sleeping in public places. i can yell at passers-by who disrespect my public cinched bubble. my beard is growing; i can curse the rich without recourse. i will take your money and any left over food you care to share.
my mother died and left me lonely. i sit in bed asking her to visit me, through the flashes of heat i see her hands. they are holding a letter that cannot be opened. she longs to hold me. this is impossible and makes it worse. there is a bank account. i plan on feeding the next thing that loves me dollar bills through a twisty straw.