What my mother taught me

My mother taught me
that jackets and umbrellas are prosthetics
I must never close the door on
that clothes and shoes must always be two sizes too big
that hems and waistlines should outstay their welcome
that my legs should be shaved, but always covered
if they are to carry me safely across continents or cities
that my neck and hands will always betray my age
despite whatever oils or solvents I might use to treat my face

that the poems I ink on my palms are a gateway to tattoos and prostitution
that on climbing mountains and steering ships, I should watch my back
that body piercings must equal two—each ear, and nowhere more
that masturbation is a treat I must discover accidently, if at all
while asleep under the stars—
only then the first orgasm comes like a revolt

that men are always right, but not to be trusted
that they adore a braided mane—a gypsy gait—
their lips are pure ethanol
that unless they’re made in Greece and consumed after noon
that unless I make love with eyes gouged out
unless he, who I fuck, is the one
bruises of the flesh will last generations

that God is the Father and Son resurrected in cheap cleaning materials
that no housemaid should ever press my clothes and bake my bread
that a dustproof house is my ticket to absolution
that I must pick a day each week—vacuum, mop, polish
but under no circumstances—not even if my life depends on it—
I must never wash laundry on Fridays

that all stories need a listener who can clot blood and sew stitches
that silence, grief, and menopause light candles for antidepressants
that any word beginning with alpha or omega, wounds the illiterate
that a garden without weeds is a clear conscience
that aporia is a state of unknowing
all migrants experience
that we are nothing
merely spinning electrons.

I do not doubt these lessons.
Some have proven invaluable
raising my daughter. But—
when my mother dies, they will (have to)
follow her like an obedient dog. Even now, I try
to navigate my body—overcast and unruly
as it is sometimes—without her touch.