It’s been over two years.

I’m glad you’re no longer here.

You’d fume, you’d fear.

You’d cry blood for me, for us,

your world, the world, your life.

 

A joy, full heart, hiding

sorrow, long neglect, scars,

of the mother shadow, she,

a pretense of domiciled mime.

And yet, you loved deeply.

 

A 180, you bore five,

doted, cherished, fussed,

sent me out to play,

in a white dress, I dare not

dirty; I still can’t.

 

A gravy dropped sleeve,

I can’t sleep, think.

Where’s the soap? Water?

Hopelessly stained.

I’m glad you didn’t see.

 

As you lay there, awake,

asleep, dying, living, breathing,

but barely knowing, I think.

You missed my misstep,

the splattered mess I made.

 

And when you inhaled,

and failed to exhale, I cried,

sighed with relief, happy

you never witnessed me,

falling down, filthy discharge.

 

So now, your legacy runs

deep within my cells, a pattern

on repeat; my daughters dressed

in purple and blue angst,

blemish free, spurning white.