Dust

Almost perfect, you bring to me shades I never thought of.
Before you there was only grey. In the sky hung the cloud a billowy pillow.
I felt the smother and pined for sleep to shadow my lids.
I heard my mothers voice through the walls shrieking in a hollow chorus.
You are no good, You are no good.
She said this to her daughter, her only daughter.
What kind of a mother speaks this way.
Mine did, she was no angel.
She shrieked in an unrelenting blather of heat and thrush,
and when I tried to expose her, her face went all blush.
She is dead now.
She is not rolling in her grave but sits on the shelf of a beloved son.
Her beloved son keeps her in a closet.
I wanted to feel her weight, he let me, but then got nervous when I shook the canister that held her remains.
They are grey I imagine .


MK
photo:DavidMaisel