I have
collected songs to honor my mother
a thistle
and nimble contribution
Her
fingers are numb and don't reach out for my face
I whisper
a caress into her lobes
It falls short of grace
How often I fall short of it when left
alone inside of myself
I take it
all back each time she is asleep
She is laid peacefully on an awning that
is dew-bitten on the hem
Her hair
weaves the matter of fact stories
years dictated to the split ends
My fingers bow onto her hand as it rests
a half moon from the picking fields
A quiet
prayer beats in rhythm with my heart
mindful of the pump jack outside of her window
That is a different time captured in the snapshot
of the window frame built of hands and breaths
I have long forgotten
My
regrets are stacked in perfected wooden crates
filled with opaque vellum sheets
These breaths are her last and as predictable as
the dust that has gathered on the corners of my
inflamed ego
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