Dear Mother You’re Dying
You are wasting away, you have cavernous sinuses and hollow flesh. Eat gracefully: there are those that are starving, you told us this and shoved our faces into Mother, ten years dead and veering further right. We held a wake while you overslept, I forgot your name, had to cycle through every teacher I knew before I got Mother you're like communal wine: a representation of blood. This is how we love each other now, posthumously, wafer thin, before a father who believes in spirits more than us. I've tried to save you, but you don't need saving - there are scars on your pupils, lessons embedded in the corner, rope knotted red in veins across your milk- lapped eyeballs. Your funeral was joyous, we sung the only song you ever knew. Your body so pale, so sodden in drowning, you are course corrected, Mother. You were as small and tight as a lock of hair at birth. I’ve tried to shut the casket but your arms stick to the seal. You've been dead longer than you were living, Mother, and we’ve left a hole next to yours. Two singing bodies. Too hollow flesh.