Mother, unhooded, I am in the confessional. Mother, I found bullfrog bones in the broth. Mother, I might forgive, but be honest, do I look so poisoned to you? Mother, the air is damp now, and I feel heavy. Mother, I remember weighing nothing. Mother, you seemed to be blessed when I filled spaces as a baby, so I hope you don’t need to pray today: I finally fill the bathtub. Mother, I discovered reflection just now, and I hate it, so I’m going down the pipes. Mother, I found more bones, so it must be more than just you draining me. Mother, when I come back, grease me back to cleanliness please. Mother, I decided I don’t like frogs better dead; I liked living better when little killers weren’t there at all. Mother, it’s almost like absence of love. Mother, I love ghosts more than I love my lovers. Mother, thank you for teaching me rain, because with the lightning, I can see me at four, died trying to find her way back to you somewhere downtown. Mother, I go downtown everyday now. Mother, it makes me feel dangerous, embracing ego, that artificial clarity. Mother, I hate reflection again. Mother, I lied earlier, I have no lovers anymore, they’re all ghosts, and I want them here, my temptation exposed in storms. Mother, I don’t know who or what contaminated my judgment, but what’s so wrong with wanting to try oil? Mother, don’t forget I’m a mixture myself, a body of water, survival dependent on nature. Mother, you’re not nature. Mother, you’re only roots. Mother, you aren’t strong enough to pull me back from inside the pipes, and Mother, upon internal inspection, I was built on no foundation. Mother, how does one construct a family? Mother, I probably shouldn’t have asked; I know Papa was our engineer. Mother, did I mess up his house? Mother, I miss when my body was small. Mother, before it all falls apart, I’m going to come home for soup. Mother, hooded, I confess: you were once Mama.