Knots

Knots

after R.D. Laing

your repetitions were often
things that made you someone
happy then sad confused repeatedly

especially the one away from my mother
your wife. the one that began before I did
or was born and then continued

some more after I was
even though you were part of me
being here being of you of my mother,
as one. I began on your birthday

with cries but the kind that meant well.
I love to tell everyone about it
when I begin knowing them.

"I am the kind who comes
when you need me to."
I try to point out how

Our thumbs have the same
wrinkles over the knuckles--even
though we've done different things

over and over we're different
over and over
I known as a woman

you known as a man.
I like the handsome on me
the twinned heirlooms as if

they connect me to
you without fear
of being difficult to love

for more than two
fingers of daylight.
You don't point out how

we've done many of the same
things repeatedly and that explains
things so many things. you are still

and silent but still manage
telling me by how you are
that you are not excited

by our sameness and I am
singular in that bloom.
Your worst over-and-over began

a new chorus of wrinkles on my mother
her face. Wrinkles are negative space
but this one so large as a false sibling

near me when I was searching
for her
and so much

of her.
And to think
she was scarce to start.

In mornings now I seek out
my mirror and hope to play
with colors shapes paint

might do it but end up always
over and over communing with lines.
the one she has we have between

the fleshy shelters of her eyes
of my eyes I want to introduce
the phenomena to her and have it

loved or smothered--even that
I would take without becoming
less like I was less when you hid

did not celebrate our magic
mimesis: it is still here.
Is it hatred of yourself

you have taken up?
I wish you would
put it down I would

love you there
or even
here.