Mother,

                                                           when i was three, i danced

                                                       in your golden marigold fields. your fecund bosom

                                                   thawed winter’s lust for my cashmere skin. your smile

                                                ushered spring’s wistful gaze, beckoning the Yeoman

                                              to your doorsteps, bringing their soiled garments and

                                             flirtatious talk of expansion. i was naive to believe that

                                             these Suitors had endowed your dew-jeweled gown when

                                                  your brow shriveled and your cheeks hollowed. at

                                                      age six, i trekked to the edges of your

                                                                silhouette to frolic about your shores.

                                                                       gleaming, lucent Hudson waters

                                                                                tarnished, where was your spare

                                                                             change? when i was nine, you smote

                                                                 me for the first time. your fissured epidermis

                                                               shattered mine, victim to your mercurial,

                                                            four-season personality. by age twelve, i finally

                                                     found you balled up in the living room, besieged by

                                             your acidic tears and charred cigarettes, kindling delirious

                                         inferno to your barren, mutagenic womb: defective Oaks and

                                        their evergreen, retarded petals. through sullen whimpers, we

                                   embraced, but my learning eyes could not desert your blackened

                                     petroleum veins, your excavated, barren skeletal frame, your

                                     tattooed torso of abusive knuckles crunching flesh. just once

                                           more, i yearned for the familiar ambrosial scent of your

                                                    rosy exhale, but your lungs reeked the smoke-

                                                                                                stained odor of

                                                                                                     rotten

                                                                                               marigold

                                                                                             bile.