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I pulled the first sentence of this poem from a line I heard in a TV show this past summer ("Mr. Robot").

You were drunk, eating shrimp

cocktail, and it was raining

when you decided that my

mother should die.

Methodical, you took

your time as I stood beside

your billowed pantsuit

amid throngs of shoppers.

The bouquet you chose

died the next day.

I can still hear your chortle

and gargle of vodka, a joke

to you, pouring the acidic

clear fluid down the rim of

my mother’s favorite vase.

Two, three fingers poking

down the base of my throat,

I vomited surf and turf

making sure to spray your

favorite outfit, the one you 

wear to impress your spouse,

the one your wear to fool the

board, to remind them of

your phony Harvard Law degree,

to convince yourself of

something, I don’t know what.

Commotion comes from the

swinging kitchen doors.

I blast past you, knocking over

my mother’s vase. I shake out

the alcohol-soaked flowers and

tuck it beneath my ribs.

Outside on the lawn, each blade

of grass clipped to the same length.

The vase fills with rain water and

I watch it overflow across my lap.

Author's Note

I move from scene to scene in this poem; does this movement feel cohesive? I don't necessarily want/need it to feel like a story where all the dots connect in a perfect line, but I also don't want the poem to feel like it's trying to go in so many directions that it instead feels stagnant. What do you think?