the real reason I got the wasp tattoo

tell me mother
about the night you set fire
to the subway.
hordes of pedestrians
tapping at their watches
and the new year creeps in
with sad fireworks
you were sad too
and angry.
 
yesterday you told me a story
you told me about January
and how you strapped on your snowshoes
and met your star-crossed lover
at a hunger strike.
tell me about dad.
tell me about his teenage smoking habit
and the time his drunken face
met the palm of your hand.
 
or the words you didn't ask for
was it your father, or mine
who said those words?
was it my sister,
who gave you honeysuckle
on the tip of a dagger
or was it me
whose thoughts turned rancid
when left in the car.
 
the wasps were born that day
the mention, erased.
don't worry
the therapist doesn't know,
either
and now I wear his mask
each morning.
certain pain with certain
pleasure
I lie to the mirror, his face
so shallow
and sleep again,
his picture there.
 
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