mothers are women whose crotches explode
pumping us into this lifetime commode
we open our eyes and our mothers are there
patting our small hands and brushing our hair
her mind still pregnant with childhood expectancies
hoping they pass before her hysterectomy
wanting an angelic, dress-wearing daughter
but instead we turned out
just like your father
but life is this way you said
mother admit it
I'm yours and there ain't enough gin to forget it
