The Freudian Heart

The only part of your mother that you own,

that your cheeks can still root for when hungry

for her flesh, that reminds you of those pureed

peas, those nostrils caked in cocaine, those

boning knives, your mother. Your mother, a boning knife,

cutting myofilaments, your empty plasma,

you leech, you blood-sucker. You can almost

feel your umbilical cord tether. She can’t see

your face, can’t understand your babble. Oh,

Anna O., is this how you speak to your mother,

spitting alien syllables even you can’t say twice?

Chimney sweeping ashes off your eyelids,

really seeing. Is this how you die?

Look, brain: see what stories we can twist

without anyone else’s tongue? How powerful

we are on our own. Isn’t it funny how

we can build gods and demons in one body

and kiss both of their foreheads goodnight?