If I could, I’d split, half-eaten,
like an apple heart,
instead, I have worms, eating everything
I need for her to understand.
The seeds are words, choking me
when mother says, Don’t come
to my funeral. It’s what you do
before. I can’t swallow her
death, barely, when she’s too
cold for life. The bite is more
than I can make excuses for
without sounding like a pushover.
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