A Letter to My Mother Who Tells Me “Everyone Asks About You, What Should I Tell Them?”

Tell them my sorrows are everywhere.
They flow like railroad ties
From Bangor to Portland.

NO! Do not tell them a thing.
Give them pictures.
And smile. Show them these pictures.

This glossy of me wearing leather
In front of a mirror
Holding a knife and a poem.

Or this snapshot where I hold
A box of long needles
And a wet rope in my hands.