the death of the mother

even as i close the door 
on this part of my life
Carl Jung
is holding the door knob
he points out the color
of the door 
it's red
the color of my blood

even old ghosts
like to mansplain shit
he takes my wrists in his own
and traces the veins

i am a map going everywhere
and nowhere
i am the tree of life

psychiatrists have always loved me
the ghost of Carl Jung
smokes his pipe

he is thinking
how we both like leather couches
he is thinking about my scars

he wishes he had some of his own
but now its too late for him
Joseph Campbell
is riding a goat behind him
he has a dagger in his hand

we are all here to discuss
the death of the mother 
archetype

the blood red door is weeping
i smoke Jung's pipe
Campbell and I 
draw maps of the universe

on the naked white floor
of the hospital we are in
I wear a deer's antlers

we create the world 
as we see it 
with an abandoned box of legos

my daughter drifts off
into the sky
we all let go of the balloons
we hold on to

i cry
Carl pats my back
in a grandfatherly way
Joseph gifts me the goat
that he is riding

the door is still bleeding 
when we all decide
life is fucked up