Still

The doctor tells her what she can’t eat

no grains no nuts no beans no sugar a tomato is OK

but no skins no seeds what’s left

my mother says when she calls me

she’s out of  the hospital again

think of  the thing you love most

and the answer’s no even if you love vegetables

don’t even think about broccoli spinach is OK

but only if blended everything’s baby food my mother says

I’m walking around the city eating brownies

and ice cream and a Starbucks blended drink

I never liked not even in high school

too sweet too pumpkin too chai no syrup no cider

I don’t want to eat anymore what am I

proving my body is not my mother’s

in the fancy grocery store

I’m eating cookies out of one box reading labels on another

no peas is pea protein isolate the same as peas

I don’t know “don’t worry I’m paying for this”

I say to the man who works here before the man can throw me out

my cholesterol will be sky-high in the sky

over the parking lot the crows are frolicking with the other crows

no other word for it no

wine no beer I’m sitting in the park

on a hill above the kids’ soccer practice

one of the coach-dads comes up and says “sorry

but can you go to another meadow

the moms picking up their kids won’t like seeing you here”

if  I had a kid instead of this bottle of wine it would be fine

women my age are supposed to have teenagers

the teenagers would already be leaving me

I used to be interested in repetition but not anymore

“this is a public park did you rent it” I say

and the dad’s like “sorry I was nominated to talk to you”

indeterminate syntax I’m seeing

how  young he is he’s seeing whatever he’s seeing

the other dads are eyeing us like what’s going to happen

what’s she going to do

my intestines hurt where my mother’s hurt

I know it’s in my head but at night I still fire up the heating pad

I wonder if something’s bursting open

my doctor says “are you getting regular periods”

the still is implied I still haven’t found anything

I can eat I’m still unmarried still year-to-year at work

still have no washing machine still believe

this should buy me a pass I can’t live like this out of a regular life

Sarah and I have been talking about moving

to the other side of  the country me and the heating pad

to the towns with our mothers in them

her mother was in a car accident yesterday “I keep thinking

about her on the side of the road with no one to call”

my mother calls me at 4:30 am my time

Peter says “you’re living in two places at once”

the woman on my block who lives

in the parking lot behind the fruit stand

throws things at my head or she’s fighting

with her mother who isn’t there

she keeps saying no fruit at all “I’m not a quitter”

and I respect that I also walk faster

I still haven’t been hit

no one talks about caring for a parent

except to talk about the fact that no one talks about it

or maybe I’m not there yet I’m aging

into that conversation one hospitalization one car accident at a time

it’s the same story I haven’t written about my mother

because mostly things have been easy between us

no drama nothing to write home about

“you mean you can be in the same house

with your mother for a whole week” Claire says

and the answer’s yes the answer’s I like it

if  you’re the kind of person

who’s done a lot of fighting  with their mother

I don’t eat and I’m still in pain I’m sorry

I don’t want my mother in this poem either

because that’s how I know it’s real.