O My Child

You are become mine own. My have to have.

I clean up the shit and the puke.

Having given birth to me

how now are you my own little child?

Momma, we are this. I change you and dress you.

I dress you like a princess, a doll.

I clean up the shit and the puke.

I clean up the shit and the puke.

I make certain you are clean. No person could say you

are not immaculately clean.

I clean up the shit and the puke.

You are immaculate. I must have this.

You would want this cleanliness,

But I am watercolor. Daily we wash me away.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

I tire of the question. I answer each time you ask.

I let you think I am the dog you loved.

Since you cannot remember your children.

I clean up the shit and the puke.

These ablutions are grace.

They must be.

I wash you.

I clean you.

I wait for you to sleep

before I go out and remove the tree-frogs

from the cedars

so they can't keep you awake,

move their quivering green-ness

to the neighbors.

A little joke. They always return.

I clean up the shit and the puke.

I wait for you to sleep

before I wash the dishes

of your sick

that I've only rinsed

in the sink

after the dinner you couldn't digest

no matter I slaved over a ham

we couldn't afford

but you wanted.

O Mamma.

102 pounds.

200 less than where we started.

There is no geograpny for such loss,

I cannot find this land's name

on any map.`