my heart looks for you
under handmade afghans…
in the kitchen…
in your seat.
always smoking your
deadly viceroy.
little did i know
they would steal you away.
your son wanted you to
do what you could not:
quit.
so he cut you loose
from his twisted heart.
but not me
i bound you to me
with chains of
suffocating
love.
if i hear your voice
it’s because i speak you,
i move you,
i do you.
it’s how i keep you alive.
“mother, how could you leave me?”
staring back from the glass
you are not really gone.
i am.
