screeching, she drags the sun in the nape of her voice 

peering, thin rays pass through cough drop 

clear window panes as i am 

leering, her pin sharp scoldings cascading into 

searing, bleeding cacophonies through woolen dining room air 

i, have heard mother’s tirings not once, not twice, but a million times over ringing in

my ears, in blushing mornings and steamhouse saturday nights she dissects        

my origami body, packaged rosy as a tongue while she picks at 

my beached skin, no longer wedding-white nor hallow as heaven’s design 

sighing, she caresses the orange in her hands pops the pimples on its skin

while she drawls on about a god that never gave a shit about me 

i, have begun to resent that sour look on her old flat face, flat as 

my chest, flat as the ghostly walls that vomit all around us 

why, i have never been enough for my mother 

the doctor had bundled my body in that blue blanket and said

‘my, this boy's bones are inside out!’ how peculiar was

i, then, built like a murmur and bent like branches,           too young to know wanting

and much too young to know 

what it is like to be loved, 

only the cold cradle of its 

hind, and the screaming sting of needle-pressed fingers 

pushed far too deep into 

my skin 

peeling, she flays the rusty shell of the orange and

pealing, the stretch of the rind begins to mumble 

as she squeezes the flesh 

kneeling, she hands me a half, tucks it into my sweating palms and

sealing, closes the gift like an envelope     smiling        and i 

can hear itー 

the whisper 

ーwarm as the belly 

of the manger 

so i bring a slice to my mouth 

and let the juice dribble down the side of my chin.