mama’s sonogram still hangs on the wall,

framed by mahogany wood, etched

in his initials 

“H.D.” – can’t

move to wake

she bitterly slumbers in the dusted loft

I ask papa

why she weeps

when moon splits day

when shrouded sky of shining dark

when yolk of sun drinks 

salty stars

Papa,

no longer fresh-faced,

nudges me to boil eggs

who bite of writhing oil and

I nibble 

the rubbery whites 

and watch clouds 

drowned in open breath.

 

granny brings mama downstairs – a first 

and matted of discerning lumps who

clings of timid 

the frightened child.

Battered red lines trail

her eyebags

walks of stiff limp.

granny’s ridged palms 

round my cheeks

and I sink in soothe

by sudden warmth 

sniffle

of bottled muddle but

freeze at mama’s gaze.

In labored cheer granny

scolds 

of messy chaos in our shambles

tucking purple latex gloves

wetting browning mop

for some order.

 

I clutch the flaccid bag

foul of chemical breath and

papa scoops the tattered 

Pampers

which mama reluctantly trashes

a rattle

that cries of lonely shake

that muted seat

soft of cushion

abandoned in wake. 

Granny, the torrent coach,

barks to remove a picture the wall hangs

the pillar to mama’s lifeline.

Papa hushes the tears

gently tracing mama’s fingers

detaching the metal hook

quietly in the jewelry box upstairs. 

No longer the dowry of spidersilk,

and mama wraps me

with spooned touch.