After A., there is only aberration of de-sire, codex bucolic
fingers sliding fish-deep, dialing Z gene, veteran oil blue.
We flip through my baby photos and find one of Madonna
’n Child. O the inverted double You in the face of Mother
looking at You in the mirror. All that comes at your throat
is a fractured baby blown to bits and his displaced middle
finger ready to poke your eyes out. The stunted Lacan—O,
dios mio. Which is better: to hide dolcissimo in the eye of a
hurricane, as the crowd at your wedding dinner cheers on
a sensational trial of mother-fathering shame, or to give in,
first, by flagging your reproductive organs for the Nation,
while in the privacy of your bunker, go jingo-ballistic on
your stony abdomen? If life is all-consuming, breathing
fire, then hell is the human lung with cilia prickly lined
by tiny gingerbread men who caress their tender buttons.
The relatives can gossip all they want. Woe to all mothers,
shrivelled-up women who, like Nietzsche’s Baubo, were
the only cynical ones to find the truth. Mother has never
been more alone with truth. My beloved mother-of-pearl
inlay in the motherland of thou-art-holy, I am so far away.