Her mother still cooks for her
Under the dim glare of the yellow light bulb
Making flickering patterns on the peeling ceiling 
This is the only normal left
Her mother bent over the very old stove
Used match stick in one hand
Blowing smoke into her face
Tears mixing with soot
Sometimes, she thinks they are real tears; the daughter 
As she watches from the narrow kitchen door
Maybe this is the only time her mother can cry
Real tears without shame, without fear of questions 
This is exactly what she doesn’t want to be
This disappearing thing that makes watery soup
On hot afternoons, flies buzzing around her 
She, never trying to shoo them away

She tries not to think that she is all that is left
Her Mother’s only reason to be
Every night, when the daughter talks to God 
Knees down at the foot of the shaky bed
She asks that he never let her become her mother
Even though she feels guilty, she never unsays it.