I lay down different kinds of spoons on the floor like mousetraps,
filling them with the pills that killed my mother,
listening to the rattle-hum of her old
Big Chill.

I want a new refrigerator.
Except electricity is loud,
and I'm the only one who realizes it's
easier to think
in the dark, which makes me so sick
for darkness
that I'd give up
all my claims to the white of the moon
and snow
if I could have it.

The temptation to attend my mother's
funeral in a dress
sewn from her aprons is getting worse.
I can't throw away the magnets
until her refrigerator is gone
because the outlines on its white surface
are ringworms sketched gray and circular under my skin.

Mother always said to pick your things
up off the floor;
you're going to trip.