Conversations with Mama

You see me as a lump
of wax you can mold
and shape, fancy into your perfect
wax statue-- a seven-year-old
Madonna with wide eyes
and you look at me, and you say I look fat,
and I say, "No, mama, I'm just not seven anymore,"
but to you, my words are just newspaper print,
and you're too busy picking
lin toff my sweater to hear.
Like potter's clay, you spin me
round and round. And I turn
around, an dyou look at me, but you eyes
look past me like they want o pull me
back into the circle of you, start over again,
and you say I smell like baby's
breath, and I say, "No, it's White Lenen, Mama,"
and you pat my head,
and I swear, your fingers want to take me,
knead me like dough,
roll me out flat, shape me round,
into your candle,
your virgin
who speaks no more.