we whispered missing years
fluttered legs over a withering porch bench
she mixed my hair with white fingertips
to keep the itchy thoughts away
the walls of my grandparents’ house held me close,
my surrogate womb
we shared more than blood and color as
time licked her blonde with
heavy waves of fruit and nicotine and
I didn’t mind
she sung sticky secrets to me:
nights she dreamed on the streets when
rent was too high and
dads that come like rain:
big and loud all at once,
then gone
fingertips padded quiet paths along budding curls while
“mom” sat sweet and safe against my tongue
--
c
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
we whispered missing years
fluttered legs over a withering porch bench
she mixed my hair with white fingertips
to keep the itchy thoughts away
the walls of my grandparents’ house held me close,
my surrogate womb
we shared more than blood and color as
time licked her blonde with
heavy waves of fruit and nicotine and
I didn’t mind
she sung sticky secrets to me:
nights she dreamed on the streets when
rent was too high and
dads that come like rain:
big and loud all at once,
then gone
fingertips padded quiet paths along budding curls while
“mom” sat sweet and safe against my tongue
--
c
a poem I wrote about my mom about 7 years ago now. still rings true.
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