Light streaked cross my room
Alighting the dust
Landing on my bread and dancing
On my water.

Mother ran brush through my hair
Preased my wrinkles out
With the heavy cast iron.

The sound of children shouts soundtracked my days.
Their snores tickled my ears.
I can remember the touch of mother’s hand through my curls.
Staring at the crack in logs. Silencing my dancing musings.

One day I went to find the bread soaked in its rays.
I found a body on the floor. My mother no more. Just a body.

In my twenties the dust still danced. Across my room
Waiting for a man to come.
I had much idle time then.

I could not read.

I sewed streaks like sun across my blankets amd waited.

Eventually the sun still streaked. But I did not feel a warm burn. I did not see a dust ballet.

Til I was a body as my mother had been the years before.