even your mother is afraid of speaking your name.
she looks at her shaking hands,
tears on her eye ducts,
lips barley parted,
and feels.

you never quite came back.

the paintings of you and her
can never describe
the burn she feels on her tongue
when she is forced to call
for you.

you are the lullaby
she sings every night,
while doused in witch hazel.

how silly it is
that even though she is
the giver of life,
she yearns for it
at every mention
of your absence.