enigma of desire-my mother

! my mother! my mother!

where’s my daughter? she hands me this enigma and tells me to go get the vhs out of her bottom drawer again. i quietly watch her go back to 2007: a hot august in ferguson, hot enough to fry ravioli. girlhood pouts at the camera in her clear jelly sandals—“go play with your sister!”—that soft voice, so gentle you forget its capacity to shout//elicits feedback in her face//click. you go. get up. leave. the routine has ended with the tape; she’s taught you ritual is a route to preservation, until you go through motions enough that you believe them: praying to plastic jesus, conjuring thoughts about fake fucking boys, living for circles, so you go back to the drawer. get the vhs for her again, and let her love 2007 without doubt//stagnancy overtakes this body//you know you can’t go further than missouri. slip into the dogwood and busch cans— watch her seek out her annie in the places you’re already gone.