I have been morphing into you
like dull air swept by the smallest light.
And it is in that light on your hair
that I used to see my dead mother.
But now I am seeing myself
in the corner picture of you,
inside the oval canvas
that is a slight alternate
of the inner circles of life.
The oval intertwines like Saturn’s rings,
like your ovulation cycle which conceived me,
a baby of trite natural science
among the multitudes of Whitman's grass.
Roll up his democratic grass
and smoke it because I am a love child
born from the womb of an amicable woman
they labeled a suicide.
But we have lived the normal
bickering life of mothers and daughters
anyway considering I am so often
angered by your ghostly abandoning.
And then I see your pictures, and I am
paused,
reminded that I have become you.
Our headbands even match
like fraternal twins at day camp.
Perhaps we would have held
hands at the merry-go-round.
And he can't even look
at me anymore, Mama.
He can't even see your small girl.
He only sees you reflected in nature,
and I am left with no mother.
No father.
No husband.
Only a boy whom I am convinced
that I love, goddamnit.
And then I see more pictures
of you and him,
and I notice that we are you.
We are him.
And that can't end well.
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