my mother cannot love
her heart dead with death
barely feels the air pass by
the soaked filter of her butt.
my mother doesn’t love
curtains cast shadows in her view
doesn’t matter though same scene
different day must be comforting.
my mother has no love
who isn’t there for real her fiction
pumps life into her imprisoned mind
while nicotine fingers stub out the rest.
my mother lost her love
more vague delusions must choke
the life right out of her sunken chest
memories dying over time repeatedly.
[My mother passed in 2013. I wrote this piece 10 years prior. This is a memory from when I was 12. She used to just sit at the table and drink the tea she had me make and stare out of the window. I never knew why until I got much, much older. Thank God we made our amends together. She is with my brother–who died at 8–and sister who died at 3.]