mother glows as well as any
creature of the night can glow.
slivers of her are seen in
pools of shy moonlight and
untouched there is something
there that is so much like
comfort I catch myself reaching
mother’s fingertips are molded
from cigarette ash instead of crazy glue.
she is calling me to the kitchen and
drinking from a carton of milk.
mother draws distress signals
in the flour on the counter and
reminds me again how lucky I am.
I pull a pack of cards from
the corner junk drawer and
build a house while she weeps
like a picture star.
I am constantly seeing her face
through a coating of pale and
blush the color of winter’s trees,
and in my dreams I find her
asleep in the underbrush with
nothing but the muted hues
of herself, and I cry and
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