With Body pretzled up, skins converged to form branches of rivers, mouth slack and frozen to a permanent scowl of delirium and manners-gone, as many swears dripped from those dry, cracked lips.
One of my mothers – gumshoed from the alley’s way of family. “Get gumption, girlie, because everybody is full of ****!”
I remember that lullaby, “A tiny turned-up nose, two lips just like a rose. She sits upon my knee, she means to the world to me.”
I spy the scar on my pinky finger from her cigarette.
Could the King be witness in the Room? Were those buttons of hollow wood over her eyelids?
Wrung of cries – we didn’t see that coming, though we heard the flies. And Age’s stumbling rattle through the hallway.
Do you know who I am? Do you remember me? Should the window washer come another day? This stubborn sovereignty over what is reality – the root beneath the porch, the fog on the windshield.
Loosen the grip on this natural plane, Please --
Woman of my Childhood, harvester of my manners. Stand until the grown-ups sit. Look away and bow your neck. This was called the boxing match between Industry verses Inferiority.
Not child through birth – no – but life spawned by those strung-high fists.
There’s finality in this phone-call. I heard it happened an hour ago. Treading grievances and grimaces, picking through a flowerbed only to stroke the weeds. Lifting boxes of Lead from reality to the Bridge of Dreams. Frankly, I stole the gumption from your knotted mouth and still cannot cry.
In a splinter of reason – I cast out the fundamental jibes of sacred hope. That promise held between dog and owner during business hours. Except there can be no homecoming.