Pale, inflectious voice
creased lips unfolded,
‘Look how he knows
who his mamma is’
Not understanding
a son does more
than title me.


It was my body
that made skin for him,
Packaged him
Bore him with his eyes open.
He swam through my juiced canal
sweet with
dark blood, I am home to him.


Aging woman,
Your mamma made no victim
Of you.
She, the title that
Built you
Beat you
Spread you with Vicks 44
when you soiled
your Sunday coat.


You, too, were delivered
like all the rest,
Eyes held open
ready to take what’s yours.


She diseased you.
Slapped on lessons
with leather strips.
Child, you know sting
like the blue medicine
that never rubbed
off.