she does not mince her words
she draws out truths like my mother
used to comb out tangles,
those matted knots of wishy-washy
dishonesty,
self-trickery.
she puts me in a taxi and
kisses my forehead,
i want to tell her, a little
lower,
her silhouette in the
spring light, too cold for
bare shoulders,
see this heart
on my sleeve
i wore for you?