she should remove the wicked,
warmest part of herself for the spider silk
she wraps around her mourning son
& holds like a balloon string.

I never said she should become his disease,
a festering boil to lance alone with a kiss,
a Polaroid she shakes until he’s braindead,
a jaundiced collage she plasters to her fridge.

He only took up breathing when he had no choice
but to swap mother’s warm fluid for the cold air
of a hospital room—his skin becoming a gown,
the hospital discharge papers—a voided warranty.