More on: mother

The counselor says that I am in the romance phase. She is right. I am in love with heroin and with the needle, the whole ritual, in love even with the bruises on my arms.

It wasn’t long before I began
pinching myself for fat, for acne, learned
to hate my body in a swimsuit, in clothes.

Bible open. On her lap. Same page for years.
Her white hair. Spooky red ink. Deuteronomy.

Why pray for the dead if not for this,
for God’s speed on their journey, home,
beneath the burden of the proof they bear.