From the Lawn Around Her Urn
Mother, unloved, drunk on Comfort,
twirling sadly to your favorite hymn,
your body, a mudslide of cookies, leaves
and tears, demanding I enter you, die,
may I ape that grinning innocent
mowing down green blades, re-
leasing the fragrance of wild onions,
mosquitoes humming near his loins?
I slap this ear.
I shouldn't feel
your tick, earth