My mother always had her birthday-

the one thing my father remembered, due to his children's tentative reminders.

Her stocking was always half full, and most years she was the one to fill it.

She only did it halfway, herself, too, feeling undeserving, thanking Santa for the sake of our happiness.

Belittled by a man with a wandering eye, a cabinet filled with vases that hadn't housed flowers in twenty years.

I remedy it now. I give her an oversized stocking overflowing with love and gratitude,

flowers on every holiday, treats just because.

Some women fear their daughters will make fun of their own mother at their fathers behest,

but I am nothing like my father. I am my mother's mirror image- one that will never insult, or spout insecurity.

Mirror holds

stranger's eyes —

both blink first

Time dissolves

in glass pools:

hours drown watching

Face wears

different masks:

all tell truth

Past lives

behind pupils —

future stares back

Wrinkles map

roads untaken:

skin keeps score

Years stack

in corners:

eyes grow heavy

Mirror whispers

ancient names:

memory drowns now

Glass ripples

with questions:

answers sink deep

Self splinters

into decades:

which one's real?

Reflection holds

longer talks

than reality allows

Morning finds

night's ghosts

still searching glass

I have mastered the art

of not seeing my reflection

in storefront windows,

of deleting emails

before the subject line

can pick my locks.

I have earned my PhD

in changing channels

when the news threatens

to make me responsible

for knowing better.

I am fluent in small talk,

that ancient language of

looking the other way.

Each "fine" and "busy"

a masterclass in building walls

from cotton candy.

My browser history reads:

"how to pretend

everything is okay"

"ways to stay positive

while the house burns"

"best noise-canceling headphones

for drowning out conscience"

I have practiced daily

the Olympic sport

of mental gymnastics,

gold medalist in

the hundred-meter dodge.

But these unread letters

keep piling up under my door,

and my mirrors refuse

to honor my right

to diplomatic immunity

from my own eyes.

Your "maybe" is the first rung,

your "I'm not sure" the second—

I've learned to climb the scaffolding

of other people's hesitation.

Your self-doubt fits so perfectly

in my palm, each question mark

another handhold up this wall

of beautiful uncertainty.

I collect your "I couldn't possibly"s

like rope, braid them into

something load-bearing,

test their strength with gentle pulls.

Your "who am I to..."

makes such a stable platform,

and your "but what if..."

such a reliable safety net.

I've made an art of scaling

the architecture of your fears,

while you stand below,

steadying my ladder.

How kind of you to build

these towers of reservation

just high enough

for me to reach the top.

By the time you notice

I've borrowed your hesitation

to build my elevation,

I'll already be standing

on the summit of your almost.

how much would you pay

for a book with what everyone

thinks about you at every time?

and how much sleep would you lose

reading and rereading it

every single night?

how much would you pay

for eternal life

to live forever and ever?

and how much time would you waste

wishing you would die

as everyone around you leaves together?

how much would you pay

to be as skinny as your friends

to stop those three meals a day?

and how many ER visits would you make

crying with no end

wishing your body away?

how much would you pay

to be the most popular kid in school

with everyone knowing your name?

and how much stress would you endure

with all those eyes on you

and the hate that comes with fame?

how long will you

wish you were perfect

just like everybody else?

how long will you

strive for impossible

before you learn to love yourself?

The rare crisp Florida night

The plaza crowd buzzes before the lonely stage

All patched in primitive stiches, gathered in black

Devils Lettuce rising in thick plumes

Loose groups in drunk conversation

I sit by one

One of several with the GG paraphernalia

"Knock Knock"

"Who's There?"

A dazed stare is the only response

Dazed but amused

An inside joke only his twisted state could understand

A woman beside him chuckles, sharing his warped vibrations

The stale air tingles

The moonless stars churn with the clouds

They dance in his eyes, a set of childish pupils

He stares through my receding forehead

Only stuck gears behind those sockets

His body drags behind him as the head swivels around my figure

A man pulling a rusted stiff bicycle brain across the sidewalk

Looking unblinking

Eyelid freckle, nose zit, fluttering split end, repeat

Moving the head to each place, not the eyes

"Your pupils are big, you look high."

He says this, not me

I redirect his attention to his backpatch

GG Allin; Big white sewed on letters to the frayed denim vest

Wrapped around in a tight circle, a bold insignia

Dusted and wrinkled with marsh dirt, sewn on loud

Enough to even make the late shit slinger proud

He makes no mention of it and takes out his billfold instead

"Big fan!"

A grey kitten within the clear card sleeve

"His name is GG Calin!"

I smile and nod

"Knock Knock"

"Who's there?"

The woman states the question

Their hysterical laughter dissipates in the monotone sea of voices

Lost to the cooling breeze

Churning with the skunk fog haze

Understood by no one

And yet they still holler out

A disjointed music

What's that in the street, a head?

What entails entrails, torn out by nails?

Play that Devil's chord, it's said,

Summon the thing with horns and scales.

Diabolus in Musica, the dominant 7th,

Goes from the 3rd to the 7th-flat;

Violating Commandments, first through tenth

To send us lemmings to Hell and back.

When tritone sounds, relegate treat as downbeat;

Reinstate Hallow's Eve forsaken dread.

Approach each door, unlit, in mortal deceit,

Ring the bell and show up dead.

the day was dark and the night burned

the wind spread fire and the sun cried

the clouds were the ghosts of dying stars

that would scream before they died.

the rain was hot and scorched the earth

but her core was frozen, icy, solid

the ghostly steam would sing a song

a reminiscent cacophony, a ballad

how uncomfortable it must be

to exist in such catastrophe

each star contained a memory

each day, farther from reality

Human limbs/fingers all splayed

About the small dark cave

Loud buzzing heard coming from

Lit up spaces in the walls

Oho here come the fireflies

Watch out for their deathly lucibufagins

Everyone in the village knows

Especially the children that

Never smile when fireflies glow!

#HALLOWEEN.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psuRGfAaju4

Little Ava squeezed her eyes tight.

not tonight...

not tonight...

She dove under the covers with fright.

Not tonight...

Not tonight...

From her closet came a red light.

Not tonight!

Not tonight!

A hand pulled the door open slight.

Not tonight!

Not tonight!

She took a breath. It'd be all right—

Nothing would happen—not tonight.

Not tonight...

Not tonight...

Please not tonight!

Don't kill me tonight!

But yet the creature devoured her in one bite.

Tonight.