Mother and Child

the past is a vacuum and

it’s horriblehollow—

the inside is just lint

and shame—

the past is a space where

dirty things are stored—

in the same small,

reusable womb—

most of it is just fluff

from the carpet, the

fabric of living, stirred and soiled

by feet and soda,

unbirthed back inside as

she pushed across the carpet—

I mean she moved across the carpet—

and I fled into the bedroom,

scared of the hollow sound—

the roar of the suction—

I heard the ringing in my ears

of creation

from the kitchen

—your mother is calling—

You think the phone

is ringing but

it’s difficult to say—

the vacuum is so loud—

don’t let the machine get it

pleasedontletthemachinegetit