WEBVTT

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Well, this poem, I think
it's a good poem maybe.

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Maybe I shouldn't
read it but I will.

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"Forgive me--" It's Carl--

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"But I remember Christmas
in our kitchen."

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Mother, as your
bladder oozes scotch,

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your bones splintered and mended
by hatred for its own sake

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creak and groan as you move,
certain of your enemies,

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age, men, the house that repeats
everything you say in silence.

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But I can't help that.

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Don't resent me for
I'll never be anything

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but your little girl, helpless.

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While wearing an apron of
rage, you basted each turkey

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with the barrel
of a smoking gun.

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