Mother (Another / Unrealities) [unfinished]

Last night I sat with you on your brownish barge

Of unrealities, dragging mine as well in my

Spent lids and my stutter and my
Fingers or face canes. It truly seems an
Island, the square table a moon, the rug a
Coarse, weathered face of a lake.

To talk to you, that is why I boarded,
Armed with frantic report. My chest
Had been rented to gymnastics, my lungs
Inoperable. Hour, hours - our speech was

Scuffed, stopped, struck up again.
I cried to you, mother, my unrealities
Nestled in my lap. They 

inflated, briefly butting with yours.

With each mounting comes a break, walls
Flaking on one side or the other, tears like
Armies rush, rush, unintentionally intrusive. 

Sacking a node of sensitivity. 

I saw the week of the white flag return.
While I drew back the gauze, revealing my two
Bodies, I kept catching a glimpse of you,

Marooned, digressing to the white Isis from
Before in flickers of film. The rivers
Roiled around us, tightly shut thighs of force.
You said of your father
"He was never mean to me."

It is terrifying, the power clenched in the
Crooks of spoken words. In the hardened hush of
Those one refuses to say.
One stumbling noun, one greased verb and
A bird of humility, of beauty,
Twists to one of prey.