don’t hear your music
come to me on Sunday mornings
soon after church, as the
sauce sit simmering on the stove,
when walking in the sun-
bright yellow kitchen,
still a child with stones
and matches in my pockets,
you would hug me
and the cold winter
would pass into a Spring
breeze coming through open
windows, tossing the curtains
so quickly you removed
yourself from me
while I was in school
that foggy morning,
the teachers scurrying
around to tell me some
trouble had befallen
on you, as I sat in the
middle of a math test,
where I threw my pencil
down in horror for the door.
my dear, mother mary
why did you leave me
with bones and a grave
no home to feel safe,
starving for memories.
feeling now as if I
failed you in life,
not being there to
protect you from the
slaps and sharp blade,
the struggle of a rifle
and a hired man,
overturned furniture,
and a broken window
where a cold driveway
caught your fearful fall,
the ambulance that
picked you up to take
you to an 8 day hospital
struggle,
before leaving me
multiple stab wounds,
these flowers don’t have
thorns now mother,
I made extra sure before
ordering them, told
the florist we needed
the color of the moon, fragile
with little fragrance
with little resistance
so that
when we pray over them
and drop them
to the coffin, they will drop
and rest in place,
without a spring,
and fall into the dirt beside.
?
?
