protein obsession

Click here to read this poem in La Petite Zine

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.