And your home is wonderful, 
really, it is. 
I would know;
I spent my whole childhood
trying not to break it,
only to tremble on your couch
as I near a quarter of a decade,
buzzing through slow shuffles,
plucked-out sentences,
then two voices whirring by
one another like subways,
then laughter I could blow away
with an exhale,
and we’re still here
and I still can’t find my body,
and I’m still the unturning gear,
unyielding and screaming
to go faster.

But my mother still turns,
even though her wings 
and her rest said he didn’t
want to be either anymore.
My mother still turns,
even though she breathed 
the last words a woman would 
ever hear last night.
My mother still turns,
even though her son could 
fall over at any minute. 

My mother still turns,
and I, in my stillness,
breathe
Don’t let me ever be her
and
I want to be just like her