(http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2012/06/the-surreal-forests-of-romania/)

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

for her.

 

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