Bookends

Here is a pair of bookends belonging to my mother.
They represent the eternal parentheses she used
while in conversation with me.

“How are you getting home?”
(“The rickshaw driver may rape you.”)

“Are you seeing anyone?”
(“Is someone raping you?”)

“Why do you want to move out?”
“Why do you drink?”
Why do you smoke?”

(“I know what happened.
I know what happened.
I think about it all the time.
Do you too?”)

“Eat!”
“Drink!”
“Be merry!”
“Marry!”
“Have a child!”

And all the while I can see,
cloaking and enveloping everything,
her constant reminder.

The only thing she sees
when she sees
her otherwise accomplished child.

Smashed between her un-used bookends,
a bouquet of brackets,
a permanence of parentheses.