my mom slipper
splintered floor mat

hand rusted, hovering
breaths rake the air

lean, bend, chase
shifted rooms, his question:
“who you think you are”

foot sinks
in lakes of red ashes

fog thickens
ashes remain

pillow strikes
blue soles pressed
decades deep

his shadow clings
a silent fling of ash

time drips
floorboards groan

hands tremble
bodies stagger

ashes whisper
fog swallows