“The part of you that speaks in your mother’s voice,” your therapist asks,

by Eben E. B. Bein

“is it you or her?”

A Mourning Dove lands on the air conditioner
outside the window. Inside, two strangers,
two chairs, and an empty side-couch—a contingency
for somebody’s family. Hiss of white noise.
You can see him calling, throat bulging
but you can’t hear.

She might be enormous she is so stupidly
alive in you, a line you basically stole from her
dog-eared Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath which
you wish you’d brought so you could read it
to your therapist, show them how cool
your mother is, protect her
from the dangers of childbirth

for not only are you pregnant,
overripe with your entire, grown mother,
but you must shield her
from all your slander.

                                                  Let’s pretend
no harm will come of these words
uttered once in a soundproof room.
Above the couch, a print on the wall.
Today, it looks like a seascape,
lighthouse faint on the horizon.