Woman

A thousand mothers all around me
A thousand tendernesses,
A thousand tricks to date...
Red candies flicker from their pockets,
From their benevolent silk tissues –
Rat traps, spreading a thousand miles away,
Toward me, rendered infant.
The mothers smile at me
And call me names:
Sweetness, my gold, Mo Kushla,
This is the death sentence
I always seem to wait around for,
And always die from in the end,
Or is it from the beginning?
How easily I disappear
Throughout their puppeteering affections...
Some broken shape resembling shelter
Some ritual of common phrases,
Casual fondness, some joyous sketch of me,
With scarlet lipstick on a quiet lip,
And on one that's roaring, too –
Two opposite childhoods on limp high-heels.
And then I slip, unconscious
From my thoughts
Inside theirs, of me.