Tell me, Mother
Do you want me to soon shrivel
And grow old, go through that change
Middle-aged women do when their desire
Hurts more than it ever did before? Do you want me to
Sit sweet, heavy-eyed, crisscrossed on the floor as I clip apart
My name on the old envelopes so that no one knows it?
Do you want me to, at night, sit on the stool
With the door open wide
In the dark where no
One can see?