Dear Mothers of America

As for living to the side of yourself like a pile of rice
in the vicinity of the fish (as for being an eye-self
hanging above a body-self

content with separating cowboy stuff
from G.I. Joe stuff from Batman boxer shorts):
yeah, I've been there, I know what you mean,

don't get me started. There were, in fact,
ten rooms in one house.
And dust and a couch and dirt and lamps.

I was thus the body of the two hands
and the body of the feet
becoming somehow

the body primarily of the mouth
demanding bleach. It's not that I was
pitiful. It was more like:

who else would eradicate
this rotten scattering of skin flakes
and hair and spiders

and such? Who else would swab the spit?
So sure it was wholesome at the river
when I was a new mom

but creepy is the point
to live for the wiping of boots
and the soaking of jackets

with my mouth open and my poor tongue sticking out
like I was hoping to comprehend
what was wrong

with being mostly as I say
just the eye part of something
soaking in the grimy particles

while all the other girls went on being actual girls
and I'm sorry to have to say this
since I know it's upsetting

but that's the way it was; I appreciate your asking
come again real soon
be careful watch your step.