by Aaron Blair

My mother is going to die.
She's going to wrap herself around the womb
that carried me and wither, become a ball of dust.
There's nothing I can do to stop it.
My hands are mortal. I could use them
to make her bleed, but that is all taking.
I've never given her anything back.
I'll return to the ground of my childhood home
and find it burned, ashes floating,
carried by a determined wind.
The amniotic fluid will turn black.
I'll never be able to get warm.
I'll curl up in the fetal position
remembering the lullaby of my
new life, a heartbeat now silenced.
There's no way to get used to it.
The brain can't twist around it.
The source of my own life can't
not be alive. It just does not compute.


Author's Note: I know the title isn't really a word. And my mother is not really dying. Well, technically, probably, because she's getting older and her health is not great. She smokes heavily, etc. My grandmother died of lung cancer, I worry about these things. Ever since my mom's birthday. She turned 47. My grandmother died when she was 56. Tick. Tock.

Posted on 04/01/2005
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair

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