Mom

it is not a compliment when you say i look like the Madonna

just because i contemplate convents

and how i could fade away in a sea of habits

and save myself the pointed discomfort of self imposed isolation

where ghosts float up in blood-run-bodies to call me a wight

when all i want is all i have ever wanted

one big ass dress in a snow storm and the magic words

that would put things right

because my old people keep dying, you’re on opiates

and there is nothing I can do to stop either

you haven’t been right since the doctors tore me out.