There are forces that twist the tops of us like pliers.
I knew my mother by sound, with sound
my mother disowned me. In her head: mountains posing
as upturned vases (few Esthers in sight), decorative
grains of doubt.
I called on a Tuesday. I felt gutsy.

Through the pale receiver we discussed like things:
ambition, roaches, red blood cells.
Then a change came backward. She accused me
of leaving myself in another room, when
that sound reached me within that room
a white shape legislated itself. Chimes chimed.

I could no longer twist her in meaningful ways,
I lost her as a changing of scenery (she didn't lose me)
—I am incapable of being lost. I simply spilled myself,
thin, glistening. A little sugar water in the synapses.
A little Esther stuck in the branches. We never owned a ladder,
though a few times I wanted to be found.