I write pages about my dead mother like I’ve no faith in the living,
like you are all broken seashells slicing through the soles of my feet as
I stalk the road to reach a God who doesn’t exist.
Misinformed angels said i’d find him in my being,
and a placard emblazoned with
The Answer Is Here
but it isn’t.
There is no answer and there is no reason,
catastrophes come sudden and unhidden
how headlights blind in winding blackness find startled prey
how mutating cells waste someone beautiful away
and no sequence of words will make it better again (x2)
I hear her voice sing in memories,
regret not being a cinematographer,
the kind of woman who takes pictures of her food,
makes detailed maps of her life on Facebook,
sobs in solitude behind a watchful lens.
The world turns silent under my clenching heart,
the moon draws an arc in a darkened sky,
why don’t you cry, they ask me,
like I should be more sad,
like salty tears will fill the void she left,
lap at sandy shores of my grief and carry it out to sea,
my soul will not have reprieve
but other people should.
I am impervious these days, a stone walled castle
and my doors are bolted shut to even my friends (x2)
because a year ago she left,
skin of porcelain peace but
mine is a picture book of empty eyes,
starkly bright smiles.
My fingertips quiver upon the faces of people I want to love,
my thoughts struggle free from the claws of fear,
I put shards of longing together to shape a glass seashell,
when I hold it to my ear it sounds like angels singing
you lost her and then you found her again (x2)
I lost her and then
I found me again.