Tonight. me and my mother cried in the same house.
in separate rooms/ we cried for the same reason.
If I was my mother I would be married with one child and pregnant.
A beautiful woman.young. pale. tall. thick black hair. and simply marvelous.
escaping a civil war at 15 in the hands of a man she barely knew.
life granted her tears of desperation and a hope
that shrivels in front of her more and more with each passing day
her desperation itself suffers like unseen children dieing in deserts unknown
like women who are beaten day after day
like humans who are killed for another humans dinner
where do you bow your head oh gracious care giver
when the air itself has departed from your small space
your small kitchen, and the house that you might loose
paintings hanging on the wall, recognizable for as long as I can remember
of sailor men who looked tiered with their lives
of men who look like you in their beaten down eyes
why must I see you burn in my presence  
like the one time I was 13 and you came into my dark room at midnight
placed my hand on your forehead and asked me to pray as if I could save
you from that quick move, that weakness that makes souls banish
and fall into the grave. I felt like a savior that night.
My mother why must I see you grieve.
I worry with each passing day your body might leave me.
I hold heavy weights on my shoulder and my actions they come to
cease when I think of your existence.
you transcend so often. From marble, to stone, to thin paper.
you stand brute in front of me unwavering, and then you crumble
beneath my eyes.
your daughter, your offspring.  you  .
I never knew a human can shed so many salty drops of crystal water.
shed so much invisible blood. deteriorate beneath the hands of suffering himself.
How could you have been so strong for me. I just do not understand.
Maybe that is why the lunatics live beneath our roofs.
Maybe that is the reason for the draining of sanity and quiet whispers.
These things never lived beside us.
These things never will.