Mother As Metaphor

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Our Mother is the Mother of all Bombs
She is as orange as radioactive Tang
She swaddles us in overpressure
and she rubs our gums with napalm

Mother of all Bomb’s bedtime stories
are banshee nightmares
and her lullaby a whistling dissonant descent

She suckled no one because
“you miserable shits” weren’t going to ruin
her perfect conical tit

She packs famine in our lunch box
and venom in our thermos
She shows up at our school pageant
drunk on power

Mother of All Bombs pits us against each other
whispering into each of our ears
that she loves our destructive power best
while hating us all unconditionally

She makes us play with shrapnel
because it was good enough for her at our age

Mother of all Bombs locks us in the basement
with no supporting joists

She curses that when we grow up she hopes
we’ll have children as ungrateful
as we were to her

Mother of all Bombs
is obsessed with clean surfaces
abhors a vacuum unless she wields it
in her own image
of last resort

Mother of all Bomb’s awol boyfriend
last surfaced on Russian surveillance tapes
She opens her legs wide for all high-roller
Generals and Tyrants

And when we run away from home
we pray Mother doesn’t find
where we took shelter

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