Sugar Child

It is September and we are growing up again.

America gave us nothing to look forward to,

no ideals of maturity to reach for,

just wrinkles.

Today I return to my mother’s womb,

yes, the home she built for me,

16 Mink Lane.

An unexpected surprise, how gentle she is.

I have been fired, I say.

It is difficult to be upset when you miss me so much.

We lay on the floor with the windows open,

Rain comes down in sheets,

Just the way we like it.

My mother lends me a poncho,

thick enough to keep the disaster out.

When a woman has worked her whole life for something,

she rarely knows what it is.

How long it’s been since I’ve been thoughtless.

Since my heart was held down.

Comfort, like a child made of sugar, again.

I had forgotten I was somebody’s daughter.