i. on making peace with my mother
i feel as though i must first apologize for how i entered; half-breath and whole-fisted, twisted and silent. a bundle of burdens taken away on steel wings. oh, how you worried, writhed and wept. went to a world of neon cages and man-made suns to see the thing you had created, kept company by contraptions and doubt. to see the the fruits of your labour laid out, signing papers and putting your flesh and blood in the slick hands of strangers. you ate uncertainty for breakfast and anguish for lunch.
i spent the early years of my career commanding questions, marching them from my belly to my tongue, appetite unconquered. a dominating soul, five years old and ancient to my peers all my answers were demanded from you. you caught them fearlessly, fighting to find if i could find an equilibrium in the seesaw motion of my madness. we both realized i would not.
alas, you cannot compete with the dead parent. the immortal morality of the man made into memory