In Writing

Hurry up.
Finish work.
The kids will be asking what’s for dinner.
The wheel is turning
So run faster.
Except… no.
It’s just echoes now.

Do we have pens/loose leaf/band-aids/socks?
Where is my sweater/login/baby picture/hug?
I hate you.
Can you give me a ride?

Come closer.
You don’t understand
So let me show you everything.
Ugh, no, I don’t want to talk
But maybe just sit here.
Don’t ask questions.
But I’ll tell you 
Down to the inkiest depths of the well.
Stop babying me.
Why don’t you care?
Can you give me some space.
Can you tell me that story.
Do you remember that song.

Noise is a negative
Against which silence pops
And grows and points to you.
You, like flesh of mine wandering the Earth,
Sentient but only partially separate
Or so I thought for just too long.

I made you so you’d walk surefooted and far
And I am so damn proud.
But I don’t know the intentions of these echoes,
And I need to find where to unearth my old name,
The one that isn’t Mom.

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