protein obsession

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Click here to read this poem in La Petite Zine

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My mother tottered
inside to
die, hair
fluff, white, body
paper. She had begun
her new life of
no speech
and could, I am
sure, have taught
me some
thing. We know
silent letters but who
knows what
words are
unpronounced?
Sometimes, I wake
surprised my bed still
holds
some of me, I haven’t seeped
out in the
night, seeped into my mother’s
absence, I sleep
under flannel
blankets
she left me
everything she left could
be used
forever.
I sleep inside
dreams of her —
Eat she says eat
she says plump in her
apron’s paisley, hair upswept,
arms hold
me, arms stretch, a sandwich
cut on the diagonal
tuna and mayonnaise
and celery and not
everyone does but
my mother
put in a
hard-boiled egg.

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