Checking In

When I call to check in

after days of avoiding—

your silence,

frustration,

the cathedral of agony—

you might answer:

I’m hanging in there,

today’s a bad day,

or worst of all:

don’t even ask.

When you say that,

My tongue restrains—

I didn’t want to call

in the first place!

Some days I wish you were dead.

So I wouldn’t have to hear

your traumatized,

flickering voice.

Every day,

for four years.

I want to tell you-

hearing your suicidal thoughts

makes me want to bash

my head against the wall

until my brains leak out.

So next time you lament

that the pills,

the ketamine,

the shock therapy,

the encyclopedia of treatments

hasn’t helped

a damn!—

I’ll want to answer,

tough shit, bitch,

but instead

I’ll just say:

I love you,

Mom.