Mother

by Michael Constantine McConnell

Mother, I’m falling
apart and don’t know
what to do. I’ve turned

a good woman’s love
into ink. You taught

me how to read,
and, now, I am a man
of words. Mother, shrink
me into a seed; rest

me on a delicate
pillow. I need whisky

and a whore to ease
this pain. I’ve grown
into a wingless bird.

Mother, part of me
died yesterday, left
an airless place, gnats

circling a toilet in winter.

I need a double to burn
a hole in my stomach
so the demons can leave.
Mother, I threw a dart

hit the bull’s eye, watched it
detach, fall to the floor,
tap dirges against neon-lit
concrete, briefly. Then stillness.

Hold me, mother. I’m a baby
again. Coddle me in saline.
She doesn’t love me anymore.

Usher me into pre-memory, give
me a red pen to revise.
Give me Wagner and a dead
rabbit to break my heart.

Tie my eyes into knots.
Steal my vision. Censor me.
Retract my tongue into my throat.

Pat my back when I’m choking.
Close my eyes if I die first.