Commute

Would I be
a decent exorcist
running a braid
of copper wires
along my mother's
teeth, to see
the flames
change colors?
Her hands
sometimes small
as coins, reach
for me, even
when the moths
make up most
of my body.
I know she's sorry
for the bad years:
I packed my bags
once. I slept in
a neighbor's car once.
I know it's cruel
to make her
wear the same dress
in every memory
to say forgive
yet stitch a mask
on her while she sleeps.
I always knew
guilt would keep her
from noticing
the money missing
from under her
mattress.
I could get away
being clumsy
with knives.
Every surface
punctured.
Every curtain
drawn. The house
still sinking
when no one is
on board.
It beckons me
from the highway
to watch
the one lit room
slowly go dark.
I want to break
its windows
with my face.