Hairline
The
last days of my mother’s life,
when
bones were almost all
that
was left of mom
in
this world, I kissed her
on
the forehead and called
her
“sweetie” each time
I
put her to bed, kissed her
near
the widow’s peak where hair
and
skin met like the fracture
line between
earth and sky,
her
thinning skin stretched
tight
over a hard plane
of
bone, her downy hair
as
soft as clouds seem, framing
the
vacant space
where
crows caw and fly,
call
to her and fly.
No comments:
Post a Comment