Eighty-five Green Candles
I turn her lean alabaster back towards
the fancy hotel’s environmentally friendly shower,
with my bare hands.
How do I erase my cool malice
that I carry from Barbie, Leave it to Beaver
and the graceful transformative blessing
of being Shirl’s daughter?
Now she steals my love by omission—
fashions it from rolls of pillowy soft
double-strength toilet paper,
that she carefully unrolls like dough
onto the bathroom floor’s plush carpeting.
Let me dry you with ten weeping towels
piled in the sink. You look away in shame,
for teaching me how to forgive
your frailties and flesh eating loss.
This ancient act of bathing
sucks at my breasts—
call me your mother,