The Process

my mother cut her hair short and I came home

and who was that it was her and she had a floral

patterned dress on or I came home

and she had long hair this time but different eyes,

all skinned up and teary on her dad dying and she had a sailboat

patterned skirt that time and I had gotten accustomed to the bit

where in any case I would come home but now

I keep wearing all these patterned fashions and everywhere

I go is not mine after all like when my hair is short or my

eyes are all skinned around and burnt but I wake up in the dark and

either I’m dead or I can’t recognize the place…and even inside I’m always

running home, as my eyes close against my will and I’m saying no, no, I’m

awake, like I always have, but I feel myself slipping away and I hear myself speaking

tongues to my earthly lover of a dream I’m in and she says What chicken.  And I say no, no, it was a dream sometimes I get dreams mixed in, and in this, I’m coming in and out of my front door.  Neighbor, neighbor, neighbor, come in–not yet–wait right here while I tidy up–wait right here–just wait–just wait right there–just wait for me to clean up my home, maybe ice my eyes, wait here on the stoop, as I always have.  And would you like some chicken while you wait.