Judas, bury me in the sand. I don’t wanna. Come on. I’ll let you use my glass shovel. Leave me alone already. Don’t make me make a miracle of you. I’m busy. Put that dolly away and start digging. It’s a Roman Guard with special Whip-Motion-Action. Dolly. It’s not a dolly.
You broke Pontius. I didn’t touch it. You didn’t have to. You broke it. Prove it. I hate you. You don’t know the half of hating. Start digging.
My mom moves to Fort Walton Beach from Okinawa, where mamazons made dresses for her dollies and cut down yard snakes for soup. She brags about eating cacao- covered ants. This is the summer a man will break into her room and (almost) rape her. She ignores the war (mostly). She likes to make jewelry. Her father is an officer in the Air Force. Her mom finds birth control in a drawer. The pills are her sister’s, but she will be called the whore. I hate my mother (most) for not naming blame. If not for her I’d never have been a poet. She’s the one who put me in this blue dress lit on fire— taught me to speak, not of the burning, but about how pretty the dress is. 1970 is when I’d most liked to have known her. She says, Florida is where I was most happy. I say, watch Ma, how when I twirl the flames lift up.
When I was a Boy
My mother bent a Lamborghini on a hydrant, crossing the street in a pair of stilettos. Men couldn’t stop looking. My bowed nose concerned her. I cut off all my hair and lived on the highest branch of a tree. As a tomboy I gave her less to worry about. I out wrestled the sixth-grade. Taught myself, no. Was Batman, brother Robin. We ran the neighborhood. Under-roos over pants, terrycloth capes, shooting water-pistol at men’s crotches. Saving mother for our own attention. Ding-dong a Sarah-Jane Adams Elementary boy said, pushing my ten-year-old nipple. Opening a door. You’ll appreciate being wanted one day, mother said, rubbing the bump out of the rim of my nose. What I wanted was for her to grow in her own plot of dirt without others spading for her roots.
The Woman Who Cut Judas Down
had lost her son. This body strung from a branch could be anyone— even hers. She climbed the tree to chew through the rope and bring down the stopped heart that had grown within her.
On the ground she gathered him to her— whole self shaking as a baptism worked its way out from in her words beyond human articulation— fever and a cry mistaken for pain.