Dzien dobry, Mother.
I fell through that thick quivering
bankrupt void of flesh.
Coated in mouldy, overly blubbery conserve.
A copious seal, beached upon a blanket.
I still wear your witches scarf.
Gags me, like your future. The moth-eaten fox
hanged in the cupboard, hanged in darkness
did not file away your secrets in its matted grass of fur.
Secrets of Sharnford Lodge
where you became---
“Ladies and Gentleman!
Polish face and sharp, English tongue
Manipulator of Society! You speak-
“Beckon forth Mr. Inebriation.”
Re clothe yourself in the purple bruise.
Change your scales for
the next woman, the latest disguise.
Disappear in the mountains,
Blen Cathra. I do.
You do? Thank goodness
for the treasure that you cannot touch.
until blackness and division descends.
That blackness is you, Mother.
Ex-Smoker, Future Widow,
Artist of influence and
Master of ripping the hair from her scalp.
Adjust this storm in my brain
with your family of barometers.
Your negligence Mother is simply a grin,
a grin on your face with that Lion’s mane.
Your sister’s eyes, knowing. Kaziameira. Petrified.
Your pedestal, cracked, lit by torches
just like the Baba Jaga in her Polish Salem village.
But you shall be silent.
Watch the photos and my antique table burn.
Parent. Mother. Mum?
You have aged, but you still command guilt.
You have shaking hands like the host.
I have finally figured you out,
Yet, I have nothing more to say.