and with my moving out
you gave me a magnet that read
"anything you can do"
"— I can do better", and
I know how you love me, but
considering it's me
it felt more like a taunt, and
less like a verity

I try not to blame myself
for my obvious ineptitudes
but two years after moving out
you wrote me that letter, whose
paper bits I've stuck
under your magnet's grip
"no one's going to help you now"
"— you've got to start helping yourself"

mother, have you already
lost all your faith in me
in your engine of fantasies
star-spangled dreamery
mother, it's so clear to me
I fear that I'll always be
your son last, and
firstly your embassy
mother, you couldn't see
past prosperous reverie
all I ever wanted
was for you to hug me