living very far away and having resigned herself to certain attributes
of my personality—which are mostly blamed on the poor
conditions of the countries I choose to live in
and/or my father’s side of the family’s genetic
predispositions, she finally instructs over the not so
small phone placed under the only plant
i can really keep alive—bamboo,
if you were wondering: “get it while you can…
—they all leave you.”
my mother advises, and the support becomes bakhtinian
grotesque in that instant.
i would like to bring this up to the poet women
whom i plan, cackle, dream, and dine with.
instead we like
to talk about how long we can last
or dry shampoo is in order.
whom are we challenging?