My Family Tree

I told her that I was afraid of dying, that morning.
"You're only as alive as you allow yourself to be."
She coughs into the phone, harsh and wet.
"You're too damn young to be dead."

I think about all the dead things in the apartment:
Moths hidden inside lampshades,
Shriveled arachnids, rigor mortis long set in.
I hope that my life has not reached that kind of stagnation.

Reluctantly, I imagine my mother huddled up on her
Urine-streaked sofa, watching reruns of
A show cancelled five seasons ago.
Years pass. She is still in the same place.

We have both made mistakes.
Repeatedly, we have chosen men who have
Tried to destroy us.
I am my mother's son.

I see myself with foolish and arrogant lovers,
Men grabbing for something sweet and hidden.
But my honey is held deep inside,
Buried beneath old wounds.

Waiting for someone to unbury me.

Then there are those who want to
Possess and control everything I have worth taking.
They ransack me until they have taken it all.
Bitch. They say when they are done. Fucker.

Often, they destroy me.

Sometimes, when I am this lonely,
It seems that all I have is my poetry,
A million shattered words murmuring
Outside of my periphery.

Early morning,
The faded, grey sunlight peeking through
Modest, dull windows
Reveals light footmarks on my old wooden floors.

Call me more often,
My mother says.
I can see, perfectly, the words raining from her lips.
I get lonely here.

I promise to call more often and hang up the phone.
I look out the window with a fat cup of tea in my hands.
My small shih tzu glances over at me and sighs.
We're all lonely here, I say to him.
We're all too young to be dead.

--Ronnie Kaplan