mother tells me to go upside-down
so the world falls from my head

she wants to see the flat blue ripple
like pools of concave mirrors in Spring

and catch the names of fallen things
in a Mothering palm—horses, stars,

my ten holed umbrella and evil
amongst the masses—eternal.

She teaches me a thoughtless coma
to unthink all worldly crimes,

the imperfect son of God who,
like Man, saves pity for himself

she says to unsee the faceless figures
that blackened flesh like bruising plums

and forget the muted colours
pressing against my collaged skull

Mother tells me which side is up
and thinks up a reality for me.