there is sense if you can sense it
hidden meanings in the leaves
old utensils from her kitchen
someone call my Mama

smoke that furrows brow and burrows
deep into alveoli
steam the veggies, crunch broccoli
someone call my Mama

arteries and art theories
make for conversation over-
heard above the waves that rush
hush, and call my Mama

o my darling chicken sandwich
half a brick of vanilla
root beer, roots, abortificent
silent, call my Mama

verse, and worse, with broken paintings
dust and lice among the frames
games with holes and pebbles now
please, someone call my Mama

someone call my Mama