you look at me

after Margaret Atwood

like the eye of the storm 

looks back at her God 

asking, is this what it takes

for you to notice me?

RICOCHET

I am steeped in gloom, 

fluent in rage.

My mother dies every time I close my eyes, 

and I die every time their hooded lids open.

I can only breathe when her head is underwater.

My heart starts beating when hers stops.

I love my mother as much as I hate her, 

and I hate her as much as I miss her, 

and I miss her in every moment, 

waking or sleeping.

Is there a remedy for spiritual whiplash? 

Can you tenderize a strained neck 

like a flank steak, soaking it in wet brine?

Does a grief exist that isn’t confusing?