About Mama
Your ghost lounges in my shadow
And the sun
That smears blindness and obliteration
Over
This crust of grief
Falls like an angel into the
Lilac and mulberry sea
Hope is a thorn, my friend
I hang by a pinky
You’re as cold as you are warm
On Sundays,
We would dress
To the blue music
It would fill the room
With the rhythm, O’
Sharp and beautiful rhythm
Of melancholy
Once in church,
On the cold cherry pews
It would hold my hand
And all the suffering made sense as a necessary sacrifice
For beauty
And beautiful
As a secret and mysterious, maternal treasure, of loving
And loss