Visiting mom

Posted on April 16, 2015


I find the box in the back of the closet

add water and stir

with a bit of clay

you’re back to normal

well, what’s let of you anyway


For the sake of authenticity

I slip a cigarette between

your ash-clay lips

find a lighter and make fire

watch as embers absorb the tip


You have no hair now

lost in the great blaze

that made dust out of your bones

so much less of you now

I guess I should have known


But now you’re here with me again

like the old times the light is dim

I put a glass of wine on the table

though you can’t use your hands

I’m sure you’d drink if you were able


I tell you about my new job

my new friends and home

I ask you for your advice

you can’t say much, your lack of tongue

but the thought of it is nice


Before too long you start to slump

because I didn’t bake the clay

I thought it’d be inconsiderate

to put you through an oven twice

although now you seem indifferent


So I pull the box back out

and as night draws shadows on the walls

and you lose your shape

I gather you up off the floor

just like I used to do

return you to your closet place

Posted in: Poetry