The Porch Light is Off

the porch light is off
and I’m holding a pint tub of yogurt ice cream
with both hands. I’m watching it sweat
white beads onto my lap like
the droplets of milk that an infant can’t 
quite catch on his mother’s breast. I’m watching us 
all convince ourselves we’re better off immortal.
I’m on my mother’s doorstep. All that rhythm 
in the downbeats of my mother’s 
slices while she’s making seaFood. 
when we dissected a pig’s liver 
some people felt personally
offended by the stench. I didn’t  
because solitude whispers into my throat 
when I think of anything existential. mouth 
to mouth with solitude is like noticing the 
wrinkled skin sagging off my mother’s neck. 
if I sit here too long I’ll convince 
myself we’re rational enough to live forever.