Or so the technician says, wielding
her pearly injectibles in a syringe.
Wearing her crafted features, the Not-I
travels down a parallel corridor.
I dream the bald onion. Astride
a wheelchair, my mother perches
in her corpse. The Not-her
had a facelift years ago at forty.
Her third husband, post-stroke,
drags her along, because That’s what Judy
would have wanted. I manufacture my mouth,
foxes startle—moisture rises from the grass.
We tend monuments to her pretty:
coy in the late 50s, her eyes limpid
beneath black netting, we grant all her wishes,
but too late—. A non-blooming mulberry
clings to its thousand secrets. Trees, gowned
by want, haunt us with the human.