dear mother
.
the light outside is fading almost pink translucent
painting the whole room an off-color milky silk
the clouds have dissipated
a dog barks at the sky turning its insides outside
you’re lying on the floor again
arms askew at two 90-degree angles
little triangles harsh against the dirty carpeted floor
if I close my eyes I can see you as someone else
the you in the photo I kept on my bedside table
all those years we lived in that big house and I
remember you cooked dinners mostly burnt and piled
up laundry and got on your hands and knees to clean
the bathroom and snuck into that room under the stairs
to crush tiny white pills and emerge heavy handed emerge
with your hands all sharp and arm cold to the touch but
with my eyes closed you can emerge different you can
emerge as the you in that photo
young and freckled and showing all your teeth
head titled against my father’s
maybe before you were married maybe not
nose scrunched up in what I perceived as delight
though I never asked
your folded hands stacked on the wooden table
glinting back the florescent lights of wherever
you were that night
(I never asked)
dear mother I don’t know if you know but
I used to press my hand to that photo every night
imagine that small you reaching and pressing back
not through its glass entrapment but right up against it
my hand flat against the smalled version of yours
the glass cold where it touched my palm
your teeth still barred in some smile I’ve never seen
in this life.
