Sometimes, I write poems.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Most of the morning I was in good spirits.
Smiling at times, talking to people, commending
them on their journey.
So good to see you
Nods. Warm hands in mine, the more aggrieved.
Rehearsing salient points of the eulogy.
Reminding the officiating minister of a program
adjustment, I turned into the room she was in.
She, my mother.
Cannot be reduced to a pronoun.
I did not know this yet, but as I rounded the edge
of the coffin, my eyes vomited everything
that I have ever been. Clear. Salty. And spilled.
c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010
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