this poem just tumbled out whole this morning after a night of dark and tangled dreams...

Lovesong For Mama

I can only seem to grieve for you in my dreams
when things happen that should not happen -
my father appears with a woman groomed and coached
to look exactly like you, back when you could walk,
and tells me to call her Kim, which was your name,
even though she is young, blonde, and obedient
which you were not.
I start screaming like a child in a war zone
to make sure everyone knows
that my mother is dead and this
is disrespectful, don't you think?
They stare like sheep. Once again
the problem is reduced: I am too sensitive.
I bawl hysterically and run
down the halls of some dark mansion,
collapsing in a stranger's bed. When morning comes,
in the dream, I expect a man who loves and terrifies me
to kiss my cheek and try to know my mind.
Instead they have brought a doctor
and enclosed my wrist in a plastic band
marked with the first date I was held down
by three nurses and given a shot
for my own good. I was two.
Now I am not allowed to speak.

When I wake in the raw pink dawn of the real world
my eyes are burning. Through the kitchen window
the land is frozen solid and it glows.
I check for a message from a woman who loves me
which you would hate, because she is a woman.
I light the stove and remember
you were the first woman who broke my heart.
I was told, over and over, that you loved me
by my father, who could not make you stop.
Even if I could not see it
this was love: contempt, rage, hysteria, despair.
Clearly love was a painful thing, or it did not exist at all.
Love could not be demonstrated, it could only be described
like Santa Claus or Cinderella. Love did not feed you
or touch you, or learn who you were becoming.
Love required excuses and objections. Love required a defense.
Love could not be felt, or seen; it was invisible
like death, or the future.

I had other ideas. This was wrong.
Life was supposed to be different. It should be fair
and somewhat rational. There should be rules
and predictable outcomes. Hungry people
should be fed, sad people
should be held, rich people
should be generous, sick people
should be healed, all people
should be free. Clearly, I was crazy.
Clearly, I did not understand the way things work.
Tree-hugging liberal bleeding-heart leftist weirdo freak
radical dyke wingnut bohemian dreamer.
When you died, perfect, of gangrene and booze
you taught me that the world is sick and needs healers.
You never even had to say the words.