she would miss her children
if she ever admitted they were gone.
dusting shelves still full of trophies
placing fresh daisies on
her daughter’s bedside table.
it’s hard to tell
how long the girl has been gone
the cut flowers uncomfortably alive
with mom’s weekly replacements.
this bouquet is one hundred fifty six.
her dead son’s shoes still peek
from under the bed
by his football and box
of cards which he kept
marking his birthdays,
his loves and his losts.
her only brush with reality
comes with floor hugging sobs
reading historic Hallmark memories
returning each one exactly as
she found them.
the dressers are full of
left behind clothes
neatly and compulsively folded.
the kids never leave if
you never stop taking care of them
and you never have to admit
you’re alone.