I have not
dreamed of you, my Mother
long gone many
years now
I am so much
older than you were
when you finally
left this world behind ~
almost twice
your age
so it is hard
for me to think of you
as my Mother, unless
I return to those days
when you and I
were split
like dry wood
that the axe took down
I keep trying to
remember love ~ yours ~ mine
and how it was .
. . once
but it's hard
recalling, even though I know it
must have been .
. . once.
Darkness
swallows our trail
it floats along linoleum
floors
and a porcelain
sink that stood in the corner
of that small
kitchen where you painted your hair
so bright, so red
and necessary
for that look
that turned men's heads.
I was very young,
no matter
still you taught
me how to
paint the hairs
you missed
in back of your
head ~
the back of your
head
where you always
kept me
close at hand
for secrets
hard to hold for
one so young
but you needed
me
and I kept your
secrets
yes I did ~ for
years.
I wish that I could
dream of you
just once ~
and the days
when your brown eyes
smiled at me and
your soft hands
touched my face,
and remember how
love must have
been ~ once.
Joanne Cucinello
