The Cauliflower Nest

for Mom

It's confusing, after eating so much cauliflower

From the serving tray, to find oneself alone

Like this, a cutout on the cutting board long after

The blade has dropped. Whatever is useful

In the cruciferous digestive experience will lodge

Somewhere in the psyche's cluttered nest

So later on, as some foul event runs a flutter,

It might seep into the fissured foundation like

Emergency glue.

A furry arrow wags toward my

Head but I know it's not a threat. I find

It hard to stay quiet. I say quiet things

Nodding my head though I have nothing to

Say, and in this I am like my mother. My teeth

Are not her teeth, my ears are not her ears.

Her dog's flicking tail has no place in my poem,

Yet it appears,

arrow-like, its motion stronger

Than any virtue, more virulent than imagery

Or rhythm. It lights up a certain part of the brain,

The way the mere thought of money will ignite

A warm glow around the hypothalamus

But then as it diminishes you wonder whether

You really desired to become better, stronger,

And more circumspect in social and financial

Matters.

At least my body is a nest, a place

That hums and shivers and burns, a bungalow

To crush with other bodies, other bungalows,

Before becoming the cross-eyed ghoul digging up

Dead pets in the neighbor's backyard graveyard.

A parade of wounds would at least amuse the guests.

Source: Nests in Air (Black Ocean, 2021)