Tell me, Mother

Do you want me to soon shrivel

And grow old, go through that change

Middle-aged women do when their desire

Hurts more than it ever did before? Do you want me to

Sit sweet, heavy-eyed, crisscrossed on the floor as I clip apart

My name on the old envelopes so that no one knows it?

Do you want me to, at night, sit on the stool

With the door open wide

In the dark where no

One can see?