Inspiration

We found you in the middle of the kitchen floor—
me, Billy, and little Jacob—
humming something off-key,
hands tangled in ribbons,
feet covered in paint, or milk,
expressions changing too fast, too often,
so that your cheekbones smiled
as your eyebrows wept.

And we were as unsurprised
as little pitchers—so eager to be filled!—can be;
Billy ran for Daddy, who was shocked.
He called a quiet sort of ambulance,
even as you squealed and tried to reach the knives,
Jacob clinging to your leg and wailing,
me draped across your stomach,
my jelly sandals squeaking against the tiles
as I tried not to look.

We visited you only once at that place—
little Jacob, me, and Billy—
and then dug our heels in,
because you were not really there,
eyes just fly-specked mirrors,
hands lumps of unfinished concrete,
and because our bruises had not yet faded.
Daddy told us that you loved us very much,
but we saw that you didn’t even mime the words.

Now Billy photographs you, over and over,
girls dripping with black-and-white metaphors,
while little Jacob designs tattered clothes
that trail a river of ribbons down the runway
as he blinks, cameras flashing off his glitter.
I write my angry poems about your gin and your starched dress;
they call me a feminist,
“an unflinching peeler away of hypocrisy,”
even as I wonder, Mama,
if you weren’t as repressed as you were crazy.