My mother asks
if I’m feeling well todayas she sips
on her Diet Coke& wets a rubber stamp
with ink. I tell her yes,though I know that
when the words slip out,the muscles in my mouth
will bristle, sharp &she’ll see the eye twitch,
the pain rupture acrossthe skin of my face
& she’ll say that’s goodhoney her eyes
not leaving the cut-outdesign, thick in blue ink,
I’m glad to hear youare doing better. Before
pressing flat the rubberon the card stock
in front of her & takinganother swig
of her soda,dark liquid varnishing
her decaying teeth.
the Tuesday poem is curated
by rob mclennan
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