‘Write drunk, edit sober.’ Well, I have half that taken care of…

Seems everybody’s got something they do
that poets never used to do—
whether it’s the substitution of the ampersand
for every occurrence of the word ‘and’
any of the variations of the word ‘fuck’
or subject matter you’d never be able to talk about
with your mother

There are times when I think that means everything
but then I remember that my mother can surprise me
even without her knowing

There’s a gap in her storyline
that she’s never explained
but other people have mentioned

I never understand
when the brave hide their bravery

I suppose I’ve been hiding mine
but then I’ve never considered myself brave

I do the things I do
sometimes they make sense to me

They’re usually not anything special
not to me

Special to me
is the grace she holds
when confronted with the likes of me

The charity of women
never ceases to amaze me
despite it rarely extending to me

I’m not expecting it

I’ve learned by now
that my desires don’t entitle me
to what I desire

That’s why I have trouble
accepting her invitation

In fact, I’m puzzled:
what could she want from me?

Is it appropriate to ask this in a poem?

If not, I’m in trouble
because I’ve been asking for years—
sometimes more eloquently than others

I never get an answer

Eventually I stop asking
I know what the silent treatment is

I don’t know why I deserve it
but I find a way to accept it

And when she addresses me as ‘poet’
I forgive her

(9 June 2018)