I loved him.
Right down to my last
Give a Fucks.

They are sleeping in
the rocky fields
and it is breaking my heart.
Tiny heads missing pillows
missing shoes, blankets and Dads.
Tiny souls missing moms.
Huddled in a frightened heap
too scared to sleep
when the pavement is a bed.
They are sleeping
between the trees
and it is breaking
my heart to see
the pain spreading.
Tiny fingers, tiny toes,
blown to bits and stripped
from homes
while we sip our fucking coffee.
They are sleeping in the dirt
suffering the God damned hurt
and it is breaking my heart.

There she was,
dressed in her drab gray gown
that flowed from her waist
but never touched the ground.

Then, there she wasn't.

Her footsteps were pouty,
thumping with invisible boots.
Her groans pronounced
and eerily articulate.

But, it was her wailing
that woke me,
every night between the
darkened stretch,
and the subtle light of dawn.

Something, maybe someone
had done her wrong.
Back in the days when
she could still breathe
and caress her worldly flesh.

I guess she has a story,
and a need to share,
but no one else is fully aware
for she haunts only me.

Norm wants her to be fucking quiet.
Norm says she speaks too much.
Norm wants her to have
a stiff upper lip
and quit with the tears and fears.
Norm wants her to be cognizant
of what she wears.
Norm says she should
cover her body; her curves.
Norm thinks she'll
get what she deserves
if she doesn't.
Norm says she'll be beautiful,
once she's on a diet,
and stays fucking quiet.

I spoke of you today,
and the sadness fell off of my shelf.
It was thoroughly weighted
with memories
and shattered all about my feet.

I miss the little me
that would climb onto
your polyester lap and
sip at your milk and tea.
I miss your shoes that
sat on the floor, in the kitchen
by the coat tree, overloaded
with everyone's sweaters
parkas and random jeans.
I miss watching you read.
I miss the jello cakes you
baked for me on my birthday.
You always knew that strawberry
was my favorite,
with the whipped cream frosting.
I miss the smell of your
Winstons, and the sight
of your dirty glasses.
Your laugh was infectious,
and your corrective glares
even more so.
I miss the way you hugged me,
every time as though it'd be the last.
I miss you telling me not
to grow up so fast.
Now I tell my children the same.
But, I'm sure you know that.

I'm sweeping up the bits.
But sadness is hard to compile.
So, I'll just sit,
and sort the pieces for awhile.
They help me to feel like you're still here.
I miss you, Mom.