Maiko Kikuchi, Temple, 2014 (Artist Website)
Paper and acrylic paint on paper
Mothers love to play games.
A couple of the ones I know
are playing this black widow,
that black widow. Face-Up-Now,
and moms down the block play
dress-up the small dead dream.
Doesn’t it look alive? An oldie
ma in the desert plays potato,
not hot potato, but a version
of solitary root, grows in a bag,
begins to ugly, reeks of wanting
to return to a darker world. Still, I
Russian doll, play unravel skin
because now, I am part of the game.
It seems like every mother I know
ends up alone. Alone. Alone.
I can’t stop jumping off ships,
can’t catch me. Tongue all whip
for the kiddy kids. Remember when
you could make up anything?
Two mothers live with me.
One is building a puzzled nest
of pages from girl’s books
with broken spines. The other
spends all day in handcuffs
both cop and robber, conspiracy
theories for sale, make an offer.
All the other mothers now and gone
live inside of me, lighting me up
like a pinball machine of grief.
The dads don’t play games.
They are dropping down wells,
hiking up electric poles,
neck deep in the dark web,
looking for engines, tinkering
with younger play things.
Scraped and hungry
children can’t get their voices
to register in their daddy’s heads.
My man can’t even hear
our children chew and swallow
my blood, my bones, my body.
This isn’t about games, but
I am guessing you like dice.
I ate a pair once.
I keep coming up snake eyes.