Mannequin Mom

​

My mom decided when I was ten

she was different from other moms.

The year after nana died, she dropped

therapy, then traded herself in for a

replica of her body, fully equipped

with a new consciousness and self,

backed up and downloaded in a brand

new fiberglass and plastic frame. It

was cool at first, getting a new mom,

but she started pouring wine

into my cereal as toys gathered dust.

We played croquet only one time

for Mother’s Day, shooting balls

with mallets until our fingers bled

—well, my fingers bled. More perks:

all her spare parts and plastic doohickeys

which I wasn’t allowed to tinker with.

Not having a stomach anymore helped

keep her figure, she said. Good for her.

In fact, my mom is still alive, if you can

call it that—she says the software updates

from the manufacturer really do help,

more than the antidepressants ever did.

She’s finally feeling like herself again.

I look up and squeeze her plastic hand.