With drunken hands, my mother mends the hem of my patchwork quilt And spills her tears on every stitch Atonement for her guilt
Sadly smiling, she strings a collection of hailstones atop my breast In total silence, she whispers “I’m sorry.” I am too weak to protest
I cry the day those pearly beads melt into my sweater collar So cold in my hollow chest, I hid the string in my drawer too ashamed to explain too scared to admit I’m avoiding the pain
I sleep beneath a graceless blanket a warmth upon which I depend I ignore other hopelessly broken things which I am too inured to mend