Poetry: I cannot remember my mother

By admin · Saturday, January 23rd, 2010

To my mother, who also sparkles-

I’m sorry for the time I was mad at you, and scrawled “Mom is fat” in the bottom of the bathroom drawer.

One night when I was three or four I had a scary dream- big and bright, like the pinkorange flowers on your muumuu. “I quit! I don’t want to be mom anymore!”(Was that real?) You (ran(sheran!)you) ran. Under the palm tree and over the grass to the right, your dark redmaroon robe trailing its sash in fluttering effect- waves in a stagnant, pixilated, metaphysical embrace between time and reality. A melted play-doh-made, Gumby meets Satan atmospheric shift. As you entered the street, I exited the house, screaming with all I had for you to come back. My eyes bled giant tears and the sound of my voice died in the vacuum of the suction cup clouds.

After you died my nightmares became real. As shadows they slunk up to overtake my wakefulness.

I miss you. I wanted you there when I had my babies. I needed you there when my life fell apart. I felt you leaving when I died that day with you.

You let me down.

And I as your daughter, and you as my world, may possibly find one another again. And if that day comes, big and bright like your smile- I hope we may just be.

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