Our Routine.

1.

I was stoned

and standing

in the shower,

staring at tile,

trying to make out

a new face

in the stone.

Today it was Chubaka.

I was playing with my armpit hair, as I often do,

when the soaping is done and I’m not ready

to leave warm water. Rejoin the world

where one is expected to put on pants and go

out and perform as a decent person

just trying to make a living.

I’m going to shave those in your sleep

if you don’t do it soon.

This is my mother.

I often wonder how many of my decisions are in fact acts of defiance.

The day she threw the training bra out of our cart,

What do you need this for?

was the day she began sneaking into my room in night

with a flashlight to inspect my chest for signs.

I’ve been fantasizing about my closest friends

washing my hair. Multiple hands in my scalp.

cross-legged in a tub. Hold a wrist and scrub

under an arm, a knee cap, a cloth to clean

an unwanted kiss from brow, from mouth

Even sex loses its appeal

when the need

is physical intimacy.

I’m losing my patience

with teaching temporary lovers

how to touch my body.

I’m renegotiating

the contracts

with all of my love languages.

Memory is

the rubber band

that snaps.

Did I lose my mother

the day she taught me

to wash my own hair

Her touch.

Hugs. You need hugs,

she will say.

Reluctance, as she leans in.

She knows this,

because I have taught her

because I have told her

I need her

to be soft.

But she will tell you

I am forever trying

to crawl back in

the womb

this isn’t true

But I do

need

touch.

2.

A routine:

We sprawl, three to a velvet green couch. A joint. A teevee show. We’ve run out of music videos. She gets horizontal. He takes the feet. I take the head. Massage until she’s asleep. Dead. She gets vertical for an ice cream break. A conversation after episode one that might last three hours long. Ting, ting, ting, spoons in the sink, and she’s back to horizontal. The remaining two, we watch another episode. Tomorrow’s work. We should go to bed. Wake her up slow. Sweet pats to the back and head. She doesn’t wanna go. “You get away from me,” she might say, and we might giggle. She works so hard to take care of everyone during the day. “I tried to make it nice,” she’ll often say, of the day. It’s our turn. “It might be a - she sleeps on the couch - kind of night” he says. No. Her back deserves a bed. Another pat or two to the head. We watch each other like two parents, looking for cues. It’s my favorite version of her. I might out myself by saying I think it’s because it’s the only time this fire sign seems to need me, let me use full-sweet, me. “Here let me walk you to bed.” I’m guarding corners that might catch her hip, her head. Turn the covers down and she steps in. Can she bring her blanket and half way up there’d been the move to siting. Rested her head in her hands. “I’m just recharging. I feel drugged. I’ll go in a minute.” I stroke her hair. A mother’s touch is what I’ve been told I have. I have no children, but I often wonder if I came here to mother my friends. The little children screaming inside them, asking to be held.