In Doubt
My doubt wears a long jacket
thick enough to hide
under my arms,
itching the skin
pinching the nerves
even during the smooth
of summer. It only lays
itself down when I
call mother who answers
sometimes, and that
alone makes me apprehensive.
I doubt if she can snuff the riddles
playing on my head, in the anvil.
She said she will
not leave, but the many flowers
inside a big box are withering. I doubt her.
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