mother
what gave you the right to bring these bald faced women to my christening?
harpies are a habit
and not a great one at that
even with the mad girl calling my name
pulling off the sticky pearls as i sink further down into the floorboard
underneath curtains
i gave it a blue hat
you know, the one with the parrot and no eyelids?
black shrouded with stars imploding and retreating to the beat of your heart in utero
baby's breath fogs my eyes
and you run your hands over your swollen womb and pretend not to think you are Mary
placing a wafer and rosary underneath your tongue
whilst the body of eventual ashes and milk from your breast
gums and trust on your areola
unabashedly plays John
and kicks your kidney at the sound of the first hymn