A   whole   holocaust    doesn’t  just     get  lost       Ma   (a)    fa         I woke up   knowing my  body  had forgotten   how to form    the   words     mother     and     father      ma   a   fa         is   all    I    heard closing  in  like  a germ or given   name        and the kind   of   hunger   that  feeds    on  itself.     You  know the kind.  Hostess and hot cheetos  till  ma   finishes   the first round   of floors    at   the   hotel.    What   does   she   do  in   there     Terrible    expensive    private    concerts   that   keep   us   in  furs   and    camaros.  She owes  me from the time  she  used the money I made on that toshiba commercial   to buy cocaine  for her and earl   all summer   so when fall came   all we had were jcpenney and shiseido and   that  big   empty    house   two pomeranians and a siamese shitting all over the lawn and sometimes I’d step in it on the way to ballet with jamie lee curtis’ daughter.  Was she a man and a woman, my friends from school would ask.  Was she the shattered glass after her own scream.  I never knew  how to tell the mother that drugging her black lovers  would not  pass   for  reparations.  Ma    a   fa,      tell her   she’s  not passing. When we did mushrooms in college my nickname was dramatic irony, because I see you, cause I know all the pieces you just know one of.    What’s   her  name  at the gas station pump?   What’s  her name  in  the lutheran  church from when that NBA player was always over. Why not let her pass.  And on those weekend  trips  to  Laughlin  where you dance and read  Kindred  till it snaps  into mini  vans  you  can use like newsprint dress accessories, to look more adult like when you and your sister   walk to the pool  alone with giant innertubes and a deck of uno.   Ma  a   fa       I lost      a  whole  holocaust   in  one  mirror   full of   her  blow       I wanted  to smash  it on her  head     I wanted   see my  mother   the dopefiend   beg  me   to   love    her     or at least  look  for   herself     in  the   Ma  a   fa     in  the holocaust  in the mouth    of   the  oracle   she spawned     and nearly  broke     in  me    or        we  lost   to  ourselves    like    a   realm    of   chess   not    a    round      but  a      realm      but     a     streamer from Helm’s Bakery   while   Remus is   still  my  uncle   and  not  quite   yours    in the forest  of  motives,  I still run  soft    as  the  sizzle  of a branding  iron  on my cheek    my skin  still   makes   keloids   where   it used  to be