Margaret has Visions

My thoughts tickle my brain rummaging

through the deeper ravine of gray matter.

My mother stands over me with a heavy hammer

determined to claw my brains from my head.

She’s youthful, glamorous even after all these years

when I last saw her catnapping in the casket

with smooth skin, flawless and glowing. Glowing more now.

Her voice is still the same, no raspiness from age;

The rage in her voice softened enough to dissuade fear.

She hired people to build inroads through and out my brain,

and installed movie clips to flash in front of my eyes

like suggestions and recommendations—what and how to do.

She programmed sentences in my head as random as a

cake collapsed at her wedding like a megaphone in my ears

suggesting malfeasants of the messiest essence.

Heavy drill equipment operators pound my head relentlessly

like a sledgehammer, sledgehammer …

sledge … sledgehammer over and over on my skull

fracturing small pieces, exploding and covering the walls

I’m bleeding red, I’m bleeding orange, bleeding red.

I wake in a field of wildflowers and grasses covering my head

rolling in the wind; I walk into fields wearing a tattered dress

and discover the poppies have dotted the meadow;

and fluffy kittens play with tails swishing like a flickering flame.