| mama
says I’ll be taller once the world starts shrinking. I asked her last life what death consists of. Her slight reply: ..................just dreams we don’t wake up from. Eyes gone distant, ..next we talk spices round our blood. Speak in cemetery stillness ...and mama says that ghosts .....are real, and you can see them on those ....lonesome nights ..out of the corner of your consciousness. Mama held me close and counted .the seconds ‘til absence ..tore her heart an illness and my childish eyes saw all. Dreams of death and distance, .this spice in blood and banter. We choose our words like weapons, hefting weight and sighing memory. Now mama tells me not to cry .....‘bout spilled semen and thirsty eyes, ...not to dwell on death too much or let life lose its fancy shine. My childhood evident in scars .while mama wishes chances back ..and my hands just get larger. A lullaby through which to gauge ......our goals and past ...in hopes of sweeter dreams to come. |