The Moya View

Mother Are You Proud of Me?

Image: Reba Jenson.

They tore your body apart.
You died among walls
of infusion boxes.
On the television,
the Pope riding by
in his Pope mobile.
Are you proud of me
when I cry?
Are you proud of me
when I don’t?

Peeking through the slats
of the living room blinds,
I discovered your body
slumped in the reclining chair.
Will I ever know the truth of you?

When they took you away
I searched the flowered sofa
for the remote and other things
you couldn’t find.
There was nothing there,
not even in the deepest folds.
Can I fill in the gaps that matter most?

I stand in the corner of the backyard,
my face buried in the corner fence,
my body covered in my bedsheet, crying.
Why? Why? Why?

I feel the tree’s shadow
fall over the stones
in the advancing dark,
leaving the daylight behind.
What divided us in the end?

The house is empty,
and I walk back,
my body covered
in my bedsheet,
a ghost seeking
Could I ever separate
myself from this?

Going up the stairs
to my bedroom
an old plush rabbit
blocks my way,
the hand sewn
name tag you made
starting to fall
from its left ear—
the last thing of mine
you’d ever touched.
Would you have
told me differently?
Would you have
held me differently?

The shards of yourself
greet me at the
top of the stairs.
I cannot reconnect
the pieces.
Is my anger a form of
self-punishment for the
memories I cannot repair?

I feel my body wanting to
fall with my soul’s sinking.
Is it worth the weight?

I collapse into my bed
in the corner of the room.
I smother my face
in the big white pillow.
Are my dreams the only place
I’ll ever see you ever again?





One response to “Mother Are You Proud of Me?”

  1. caroline46 Avatar

    I can’t stop sobbing
    This is very well done

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