When My Mother Returns as “X”

she multiplies herself to be every single
living thing: a cloud of butterflies, six calves
grazing in the field beyond the pines, grass
bending to the wind’s steady pressure. She’s
a swarm of bees seeking the dust of golden pollen
hidden in the cups of poppies. She is an X
marks the spot where she made me, the hand
that never fed me, imprinting my DNA
a second time. She is a white moon tipped
over, brimming with milk for a body that’s
not there. She multiplies herself to be
every form: the breeze lifting the white curtain;
a pink silver-edged cloud expanding; the night
coming on. When my mother returns, she is
the bitter in my mouth I can’t dilute; she swells inside;
she’s the branch from which birds will never fly.