deepundergroundpoetry.com
Mist
On my way to her room I pass
a petrified forest with sickly limbs,
the air heavy with sleep and solvents.
"Will Ben be coming?", mother asks.
"Yes, he'll be here", I confirm once again,
speaking of my son.
"I don't remember much. I don't try to."
My childhood is among those things she does not recall.
Or even try to.
The burden of this loss is mine.
There are words I would like to say, but to whom.
There are bones I would like to pick, but with whom.
As I search her face for a face from my past,
her eyes catch mine.
"Will Ben be coming?"
a petrified forest with sickly limbs,
the air heavy with sleep and solvents.
"Will Ben be coming?", mother asks.
"Yes, he'll be here", I confirm once again,
speaking of my son.
"I don't remember much. I don't try to."
My childhood is among those things she does not recall.
Or even try to.
The burden of this loss is mine.
There are words I would like to say, but to whom.
There are bones I would like to pick, but with whom.
As I search her face for a face from my past,
her eyes catch mine.
"Will Ben be coming?"
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