feeling deeply unsafe, I avoid life
in what they now call bed-rotting – mother
issues again. Goddammit, we burnt her
once, can’t do it again! she twice asked me
soon before her sleep apnea departure:
how did I raise such hateful sons? Mother,
you did not – not hateful. Rage was the milk
that flowed from your bosom. can you fault us
for drinking in what would sustain? can you
fault us for the failures you yourself were
wont to parade like badges of honor?
I feel unsafe and so avoid life deeply,
though Nature Herself abhors such vacuums
as the thoughtless mind, so sapience runs on . . .

dmpitchford 12/04/23