We won’t talk anymore, that’sÂ
always been true.
When we were neighbors we would meet
on the street and nothing would be said, but we
never felt alone. Â
My mom got very ill last year and I accompanied herÂ
as far as I could. Â
Maybe we could have called once,
spoken one or two words.
I want to tell you that the blankets were frayed
and so stained that I felt there was noÂ
choice but to burn them.
The words, one or two,
if that, were broken and I
have no desire to fix them.
I walk home in the dark now.
I speak softly to the sky as it bleeds out. I cookÂ
soup every night and look out the window.
The trees look like raisins in the moonlight.Â
The apartment smells like vomit, even now.Â
I wash the pots and sitÂ
on the bed. I don’t know how to do
much else.