I woke up that morning, soaked.
The sun spit on the earth again.
Cruel mothers never listen long
to sobs from their own dribbling cunts.
They just turn up the volume on
and continue to fold clean clothes.
Socks to the left; Undies to the right;
Little naked boy, blonde on the floor,
crawling back inside her
I felt good there, curled up like
alice blue cats in kitchen pots.
The light coming in through cracks,
I only pretended to be asleep,
like a wet little bird,
sucking on the yolk.
The day I no longer fit, some
seams broke between my toes—
and her laundry basket lost its shape,
sagging down to the floor, old and used up.
I got yelled at for being too big.
“You’re not allowed to go inside there again,”
she said. And from that day on,
this was the most popular complaint
women had for naked blonde boys
trying to go where they don’t belong.