bandaids on my wrist.
i wish they worked.
i wish i did.

my mother veiled
in black

sat in her favorite chair
with her hands folded

over her rosery
she reached up

touched my face
and whispered

you look thin

such is grief
that bottomless reserve

that endlessly open wound
the pain  

has faded greatly
but its barbs
  
still live
with potency

and surprise  
they still dwell

in the dark corners
of dreams

in the secret places
of the heart