Mother Are You Proud of Me?

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 
reconnection.
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?