Mother’s Torment

Her hair is surf-sea waves

crossing an ashen face.

Who is she now her colour is gone,

and her limbs are weak?

Recognised and not; alive and not,

a thin gown riding her bones,

a buzzer in a skeletal hand.

And where is the family now,

now that she has fallen, now

she is cast and cast aside?

No photo, no hand clasped,

no one to moisten her pale lips

now the breaths are weak.

Just a man afraid of death,

scared to touch his source of life,

to say, even now: I love you,

to stroke the blue pulse of her hand.

He forgets her struggle; he forgets.

Her company is loneliness

and a fraying cane chair

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