in the mud. Her sharp outline beginning to swell at the edges

while water settles under the earth. Another rain, and the well

made by her one good breast will begin to weaken and fill. Mother

as a streak my hand wipes in a mirror filled with fog. Mother as

God. Mother as the impression of God, all knowing, fervent,

Old Testament only in the way she felt truly disappointed

with me. Mother as mirror slowly filling back up with steam.

Mother as guardian. Mother as a figment of my dreams,

in which she calls and leaves a voicemail— I would call more

if I could, it might take years to get a signal again—

mother as ocean, mother as mist. Mother as my fingernails curled

tightly in a fist. My mother as a double take, mother as a broken

VHS tape, mother, mother, mother—