Take it all down:
the calendar, the clock,
the curio shelf – picture of your ma.
Take down those greasy sconces
and those framed flights
of your pigeoned eye.
Take down the best of your days
and your rage…your rage.
Take down the sheetrock.
Punch out all those cagey studs
with a sledge – strip out the wire
and sell it for scrap.
Then step into the hands of your mother
lying there – sweaty, depleted, collapsed.