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Mommy

Everyone calls my mother by how I call her: mommy.
Sweet, dearly Mommy!

But mostly, I call her by how she is always right,
as she still makes fun of my fire:
"Son, pour your blood onto something else";
Sweet Mother, goodness gracious, Mommy!

My mommy loves a husband clothed in reeking patriarchy;
regardless, he is a Plath's "Daddy," and my Mommy's love for him is a Shakespeare's until-death-do-us-part.

Then he comes home, and she dies every time he speaks.
Poor, Mommy! Is love that delight?

I have known love as how it looks like a two-sided coin:
with rusting ridges, still

I use it to pay the fare,
but it is not fair: distance still wrecks.

I am far from where they are,
I am near my Mommy and we will never meet.

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