44

today my mother would have been forty-four
her birthday, four, eight; April 8
April, the cruellest month
four years since she's been gone
almost; four-twentyfour-twothousandfour at age forty
all these fours and multiples of fours
as if there is anything to do with them.
I miss her, boys are supposed to have mothers are they not and is it my fault that I don't have it all mapped and figured out?
I do the best I can, but I've no damned clue why every woman in my life 

leaves
turning their head away from me with no more sentiment than a back-alley 

coathanger abortion
mother and what would have been my brother, or sister, would-be 

stepmoms, not-quite lovers,
lovers, manipulaters, users, fiancée, not fiancée, the lover who doesn't love.

she used to call me her miracle, and the day before she killed herself, she told me 

she needed one.
you called me names that indicated love and irreplaceable value and added 

stitches to my wounds only to rip them out

I probably shouldn't connect these thoughts of my mother with thoughts of 

you
but how can I help it, when this dreadful beautiful love that you've birthed in 

me
is given home in the flesh my 

mother 

carried? this flesh that pains every second

I say these things portraying you so awful
when I don't really feel that way
when the truth is yes I am hurt and it never ceases
but really, I just miss her and you,
and it angers me that,
while her ashes are scattered and unreachable,
you are breathing and living, and only miles from a heart that loves you
no matter what

and you don't give a shit.

happy birthday, mother,
I'm sorry if I didn't get a chance to rectify all the disappointments before you 

died
and I'm really trying to do the best I can
but I keep getting kicked in my goddamn face.

this flesh that pains me every moment