There is this woman in my head. Her favorite color
is pink, and she smokes too much.
Once she tricked her son into thinking that
he had six toes, and then she laughed when he cried.
She also told her daughter that she was dead.
She sometimes has guitar strings as hair;
other times she just has wisps of smoke and sky;
and when the lighting is right– skinny strings of stars.
For a few years, she pretended to be David Bowie,
and constantly had crystal balls flowing over her skin and hands.
Once she dropped it on her daughter's head.
She said she would quit smoking for years
and years. When she finally did, she only ended
giving up her American Spirits for pudding snacks.
Chocolate, lemon, tapioca– all of it.
After sex - instead of smoking a cigarette–
she would dip her spoon into a cup.
At parties, there is no longer the ubiquitous cigarette between her fingers,
there is instead a silver spoon for her pudding cup.
Instead of smoke breaks,
she had pudding breaks.
I hear her complaining for the millionth time.
She's saying: "I hate my stupid adult purse."
And: "I hate my stupid adult wallet."
"Don't drink while you drive, and don't drive while you drink."
She's saying: "I wish the whole world were pink."