when you trickled, the past pulled from my eyes,
hung like (f)lashes from my eyelids—still
growing with my face, still
oscillating old images
of mama’s smile, sunken
in dimples, deep as her love for me
as a promising oasis—how
she’d ooze her only moisture
to quench my thirst,
of my little legs leaping
up the stairs, after weeks separated from home,
hoping to find mother, healed,
grabbing me into a hearty hug,
but rather finding
dad, direly drained by grief,
a grand gathering of greasy eyes,
silence, sobbing, and the sweaty sequel of
i’m sorry, we—
it was the day of her funeral,
& i was a five-year-old, already wondering
what it means to be a child without
a mother, what it means
to live to die
i let you drip into her grave, wishing
i could go along with you,
with her
but look, i’m rather
going along her prudent path,
stretching it to all the painful, all the pleasant
places,
striving to complete it
& though it’s tough
to walk this wicked world,
i’ll pass the peak,
wearing mother’s wounds
as wings.
