MOTHERWOLF

Her love for me smells like tobacco smoke,
Like junipers from the gin her insides are soaked in,
Like the money she gives me to buy groceries for the week.
Her love is the promise that she’ll continue to work in spite of her hangovers,
And dark nights spent hearing crying, wailing
over the absences of love, worship and
adoration of our fathers that didn’t stay,
And the dry heaves we would hear on nights even darker still.
My mother is my home,
my muse,
my meat,
my sweets and
my crypt.