forgive the moth in me for battering
my insides for dying to reach the light
but I don’t forgive myself not for what
my mother’s face accuses me of
told you
I’ve told you
the doctor says tell me
so I say bones I say
my mother’s bones I say here &
point to the uneven back of
my hand underneath last winter’s
scars a calcified knot of her
changes my body to liken hers
the doctor looks long at my scars the same
suspicious width as my fingernails
the doctor says why don’t you
tell me what is happening
what have I
have I told you
How many times
have I told you don’t
touch that?
but my mother’s voice scatters my
memories like shrapnel into the present
I repeat her & I say don’t touch that
I say you have to forgive
the moth for burning itself
alive & then the moth lands
on the uneven back of my hand
the moth made of needle & tape
& intravenous line a new fear clutches me
I say can’t you see my mother’s bones inside of me
& the doctor administers a sedative
Cauldron Anthology
17