My mother is the rock between my teeth and my throat,
keeping me from breathing, from
speaking. Her edges scrape
my mouth, make me bleed
but I swallow to keep from frightening
myself.
Phlegm tries to dilute her but she is cancerous,
burrowing herself in my cheek.
When I try to bite her down I
see
the
correa
coming
straight
for
my face and
I cower like I am eight again,
holding back the tears of fear, of anger.

My mother becomes lodged in my molar teeth—
pushing up against my tongue, I cannot
speak for my words are her words and I'm afraid to
speak.
I cannot make my own thoughts
for those are vile and venomous,
desiring to holler words of freedom!
Oh, poetry in a morning sun,
a lover's kiss against my skin.

My mother is the rock in my belly,
sturdy and sure, yet, unwanted
for her influence appears in a volatile state.
When I force myself to
throw up, she punches my gut
and keeps me in her choke hold, reminding me
over and over how pathetic and useless
I am in this world.
So I swallow her down and remember that perhaps,
this is temporary.