just to spite my mother, part 2

i say, i have always been this way, always
a late night dark time reader, an asker of
dumb questions, talk too slow think too fast.
just to spite my mother, i say, i always love boys
like these, long and beautiful calloused hands and smart
mouths, but sleep with the opposite sort, all smooth palms
and pale feet faded eyes and smelling of pot. i say, here
in the mountains i like to hike up to the beaten sign that
hollers “positively no trespassing” and walk past it, give the finger.
i tell her, at the bar i drink i.p.a. and smoke cigarettes and
i do thank god for each poisoned hoppy breath and at least
i recycle. i am trying to be a brass statue of the buddha, a
very small fish, a quiet hummingbird prickly weed under
the porch stick of incense burning steady steady steady.
i say, i have always been this awkward, always wanted to touch
everything, sleep under the bed read the last page first kiss
too quick too hearty. i hold hands, i tell her, sometimes
the wrong ones, but always yours.