Dear Mom,
When I told you in the morning
I had “pocket-called” you
the other night, at 3:32,
I was not telling you the truth.
I had actually left my bag somewhere
and had locked myself out of
my apartment building
and it was cold
and I was drunk
and I didn't know what to do
and the snow wouldn't just
shut the fuck up and let me think
and I thought you could maybe
think for me.
J
Dear Mom,
Actually, I'm not finished.
I rammed the building door
for a while, with my shoulder,
without getting in,
so I rammed another building's
broken door, and got in.
And I slept there, in the hall,
in the fetal position.
Not crying or anything,
just cold.
J
Mom,
I put my headphones on,
and slept very badly.
I don't know what I listened to,
it was soft.
I unscrewed the hallway light,
and felt very tired and cold
and repeated “God didn't mean
to make me like this,”
which is just a thing I say.
You know I don't believe in God.
J
Mom,
A nice man woke me up
at, I think, 7. He asked
if I had somewhere to go.
I told him yes, and I went
to the BP. I thought it
was really nice of him
to ask that.
The leasing office
opened at 9.
I got the spare key and
told the woman (not nice)
that I would bring it
right back, and I didn't.
I went inside
and slept all day,
and into the next day,
when I got your message
asking why I'd called you
at 3:32.
Dear Mom,
I think I mean to start
all of my poems that way,
especially the poems
where I am cold. It is probably
something to do with looking
more like you than dad (I suppose
you'll recall that you never
breast-fed me, so if it's not
how we look, I don't know).
I think probably all poems ever
ought to be read like that,
with the “Dear Mom” implied.
