Blood on the pillow
blood in the bed
when you don’t wake up
somebody’s dead.
Call for the wagon
take out the trash.
Wrap the meat
and refrigerate.
Clean up the room.
The familiar smell of spunk
washing the walls with bleach
reminds me
Mothers never die.
I was angry with Anita when she stopped painting. Photography seemed too easy. Her work was wonderful and images made her happy. In the dark room as the magic happened she giggled and said. “Look, we’re giving birth.” You were such a tough little thing, country to the bone. At work one day big as hell, has the baby and is back a day later. “Got to feed these babies.” Tumbled amongst the mix of hormones and the sheer happiness of producing a little girl a cancer started growing. You fought like a lioness but the absurdity of dying young made you laugh.
You were working in an outdoor courtyard and I was walking on the street. You saw me and waved, I signaled back, you stopped in your tracks and lifted the wig from your head. So funny, beautiful and bald I collapsed with laughter, thinking I would die. No, I did not die I got up and walked the Plaza with tears in my eyes.