|
MY MOTHER'S HOUSE
My mother lives in a room of darkness
where illness swallows the daylight
with a naked spoon
as if it was some hungry kind of warrior
dressed in an armor of disease
and suffering angels who can not fly
While Death
in its hollow raincoat
sits at the head of the table
slowly drinking in the aroma of her smile
and nodding his ancient black head
as he watches the sand drain from the hourglass
Her silent hands
like glass figurines
posed on a low shelf
are rearranged
by all the same people
and the ground pulls at her leaden feet
like anchors to the earth
buried deep
into gravity's core
buried beneath angry waves of desperation
that rise and stall out on the ocean
and slap the passive shores
of immortality.
|
