I used to think the body was imaginary
& love real, but now mother
I have warmed your bed
and dried your clothes. I have tied my neck
to your rope. I have mother

made my glory death warm your bed. I have finished it and left
through the back door. I have left you a letter
that explains it all mother
& given you the gift now
through the sound of the syllable, mother, you repeat

my words as I explain how my poetry works.
Mother my words have killed people
who exit callous, pettish. Thus
my poetry is to god & creation,
to kill and create.

I have made you
into a babydoll. Now my maternal words stutter
& my god-given ability to warm your bed has diminished.
You can rest your eyes now mother
loosen tension between your forehead wrinkles.

I used to feel desire
as fear. Now I know better mother;
love is imaginary
& that we are real - as creation
body is the only freedom we have ever known.