201170.111202.130320.now

i’d say every day i wear a mask

but it’s been packed away in a box

for months. at this point it’s a modern myth

in my storyline, bred

into my family tree on the branch of my mother,

engraved with deference into our bone.

words, glances, gestures, bone

sharp, mask

unfettered, unloved, uncivilized, mother

invites the moving crew with a box

in one hand, a litter of german shepherds pure-bred,

one triplet freak of nature, cerberus of myth.

i’ll take the myth

and tradition r3, i’ll take the model bone

in room 324, i’ll take the ill-bred

punnett squares, i’ll take the n-95 (mask,

in case you’ve forgotten already) and box

myself in my room, 15 feet away from my mother.

and my ever-so-silent mother

who so rarely appears, becoming myth

of old except weekly when a takeout box

is placed on the doorstep. chicken on the bone

mask

-ed up again so we (do)n’t become known to/for the things we bred.

and what of the lineages bred

and the burden of the mother

and a future never destined in the cracked lines of a mask

of domesticity and the amerikan myth

and the persistent ache in my bone

s and the potential of the digital s and box.

i’ll get another shredded box

cutter since i can’t escape the repetition bred

into the bone

dry river of my mother

except when i—black sheep of myth—

betray everyone and emerge masc.

except… mom. we all “wear the mask”.

mom, those papers in the mail box are not myth.

mom, i am bone-tired too. you bred that into me and i can (will) not escape you being my mother.