my childhood bed had too many sheets piled tall as a strange boy. I stopped sleeping there at 10. I stopped talking to mother at 12. At 12 years old my hair is short and layered as my stomach. At 12 years old there is a phone call from my father: I picture him standing then, at the hospital window with his burnt eyes pleading to clouds that were beginning to shape themselves into gods he’d never believed in. I picture my father and the nurse, I picture the phone call, I picture me with short and layered hair and a teacher with soft face in a classroom door. Dying mothers I now know are the most loved. Dying mothers I now know do not use bathtubs and they do not have wrists. I picture mother with face white like cow spots. I picture mother with no more milk from her cruel breast to spare (She didn’t want children anyway). I haven’t slept in my childhood bed eight years. Sometimes when I’m brave I’ll sleep in mother’s bed. Sometimes when I’m brave boys touch my chest and my stomach and their hands never flicker.