The Freudian Heart The only part of your mother that you own, that your cheeks can still root for when hungry for her flesh, that reminds you of those pureed peas, those nostrils caked in cocaine, those boning knives, your mother. Your mother, a boning knife, cutting myofilaments, your empty plasma, you leech, you blood-sucker. You can almost feel your umbilical cord tether. She can’t see your face, can’t understand your babble. Oh, Anna O., is this how you speak to your mother, spitting alien syllables even you can’t say twice? Chimney sweeping ashes off your eyelids, really seeing. Is this how you die? Look, brain: see what stories we can twist without anyone else’s tongue? How powerful we are on our own. Isn’t it funny how we can build gods and demons in one body and kiss both of their foreheads goodnight?