With drunken hands, my mother mends
the hem of my patchwork quilt
And spills her tears on every stitch
Atonement for her guilt

Sadly smiling, she strings a collection
of hailstones atop my breast
In total silence, she whispers “I’m sorry.”
I am too weak to protest

I cry the day those pearly beads
melt into my sweater collar
So cold in my hollow chest, I hid
the string in my drawer
too ashamed to explain
too scared to admit
I’m avoiding the pain

I sleep beneath a graceless blanket
a warmth upon which I depend
I ignore other hopelessly broken things
which I am too inured to mend