I treat the future as past, a bright yellow house I inhabited, filled with broken furniture needing repair, replacement, to be quickly put to the match or just all thrown out. There is a kitchen with pots and pans everywhere and much flour dusting everything— and bread, bread, bread, so so so much bread. Maybe I will keep that aqua sofa with the broken frame and pop-out spring or that oil portrait of my dead father with the eye gouge that makes it look that his ghost is still watching over me. My mother (God rest her soul) was my door and she took the door with her.
I wish I could claw out a space for her in the partial darkness beyond but she refuses to move from her space in my soul’s basement in a way I can not hammer through at all. Only the heartbeat and breath we clearly share moves forward. She was a great dancer but I could never learn the right steps. Oh mother, mother dance for me again, in the distant, distant horizon.
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