She says, "Why am I never invited to your home? What are you hiding?"
I say, poems washed up in drifts, piled on the furniture, sleeping in my unmade bed.
She says I love you, just like a native, she may even be telling the truth under certain circumstances.
I say, you are talking to empty space, I am over here, flesh of your flesh, your daughter.
She says, I have only sons.
I say, thank you for your recent gifts, they are utilitarian and practical, especially the gaffs so cleverly concealed. I will write you a thank you note in blood.
She says, you're just like your father.
I say, I have better taste in women.
She says, in this family, things are as decorous as a row of hospital beds, charts neatly clipped at the foot and always trending upward.
I say, I have learned to bandage myself with words, and to scream bloody murder. I have taught my heart to beat, and the noise of it is all I live for.
She brightens and says, it's supposed to rain tomorrow. All day.