Mom told that the kids
in that one school west and north and a desert
from here take questionnaires about suicidal
thoughts
and motives, but I told her that life is just one big
suicide dive onto wrinkled death-beds
and little sparks of hope and doubt.
She disagrees. She thinks that youth
is like that new blue carpet, with the made in Egypt
cotton embroidery; it shouldn't be stained with dark
bile, or whatever color, really.
That's why we have to house-break the dog, she says.
II
I like small things, but not too small;
that lipstick you gave me was perfect, though you know
I'll never use it. Lipstick canisters
are more for looking, and smelling,
and shifting between drawers and other drawers.
I like when I see it, dusty small things,
that I pull from between time's fingernails
and braid into cracked lips.
III
Mom's tea is still simmering, but I keep forgetting
about it and all those other small things
that interlock in my open palm.
Mom used the metaphor of the train,
but I like the metaphor of the tree more,
because the roots
are always there, always small,
and the trunk is like a column
of suicides who forgot to take the questionnaire.
Spoiler! :
Gender:
Points: 21355
Reviews: 504