My mother has teeth like a picket fence.
Firmly planted and penetrative,
leaning against the splintered arena of her mouth
the dirt road of her tongue tense
like a levee breaking.
I watch closely for the swerve.
The collision that slips past the yellow line in our sand
as my ears split sideways,
barreling
untucked
wide open.
A casualty seated in a chair,
entrails gushing and spilling,
staining the underbelly of what I’m sure were pure intentions:
“You’re getting fat.”
Can you blame me for the flinch when there are two tons of steel hurrying my way.
The horrible sound is a familiar friend.
Who crosses the threshold before she is welcomed in.
Who plants her cement feet in the bayou of my throat,
squeezes out of me both the gargle and the choke.
I’ve sat at the edge of myself and
pleaded with everything to leave
all at once
so many times.
Folded myself into a wreckage trying to keep up.
So many journeys stuffed inside
the bloated body washing up ashore.
