I’m sorry I told you I hate your mother
when she kept us from sharing a bed
even after our wedding but I couldn’t
understand how you weren’t troubled
by it and though you secretly know when
I say I hate your mother it means some
day I will hate you too I won’t figure
that out for years so I keep harping again
about how she told me she loved me for
the same reason she loved your dog and
how she hung small paintings of slaves
picking cotton in her living room or that
she called twenty times on our honeymoon
to ask if you regretted your choice but
I can’t figure how you still pander to her
after that time when you were nine
and she put you and your brother and
sister in the bathtub and told y’all to be
quiet while she went to fight dinosaurs
and you let that quiet hang for a few
minutes with a confused look souring
your wet face until you slipped out and
grabbed a towel and called your dad
who came home from work and held her
down in bed with the door closed all day
and your sister painted angels on her bed-
room door and your brother played with
himself and you thought of older men
as a better way to get more attention