I’m supposed to be talking

I’m supposed to be pouring out my heart.

My mother is looking at me

for the first time in months,

actually seeing me and not the apparitions

of her marriage

her mother

her past and future,

and still my throat

is the clogged pipe,

stopped up with debris,

with garbage and mess.

I think my crying might make her

feel better, to know that something

in her daughter is still breathing

is still bloody and alive.

But maybe nothing is

because I end up eating

peanut butter and jelly,

which is what I eat

when I’m feeling lonely.