Stranger

My mother called yesterday,

said my name in that formal way,

the way she does when she's built a case,

when disappointment has claimed its place

in her mouth, in her voice,

like I never gave her a choice.

It didn't sound like me.

It sounded like a key

turning in a lock I don't want to open,

like something I've broken,

something that needs proof,

something that's lost its roof.

She shaped my name into a tool,

something cruel,

something that meant

I had failed her again, that I'd spent

all my chances, that I would never

be right, that I'd severed

whatever connection we had

and made her forever sad.

When she hung up,

I said my name out loud just to hear

something familiar,

but it didn't sound right anymore.