I’m stuck in a beautiful melancholy where my skin flashes hot-
and I can’t escape it, I wallow in it, I play in it,
I weep in it and I call it home and-
I climb to my blistered feet and the salt grips at my face as my eyes
stream and my mouth opens and
a string of saliva breaks and
I am not beautiful but-
at the same time-
I am beautiful because
this is my melancholy.
This is my melancholy, a purity of white from
my eyes, and a darkness of
red from my harsh fingerprints and
nothing left in my brain but a desire to howl
howl like a-
a- a- a-
a child. Howl like a child as he feels his
skin brushed by comfort, by love, by
mother. by Mother. by Mother indeed.
That is the howl I will emit.
Held for the first time by something I know will stay
with me. A melancholy. Whose mirror image
projects a dripping chin and leaking nose but
a smiling and open mouth and her teeth-
white, pearl, perhaps too large-
sit comfortably in her mouth and lie
comfortably in her arms. And I howl.
I’m held by mother. by Mother.
A beautiful maternal melancholy.
A beautiful Mother Melancholy.