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I have not dreamed of you, my Mother
long gone many years now
I am so much older than you were
when you finally left this world behind ~
almost twice your age
so it is hard for me to think of you
as my Mother, unless I return to those days
when you and I were split
like dry wood that the axe took down
I keep trying to remember love ~ yours ~ mine
and how it was . . . once
but it's hard recalling, even though I know it
must have been . . . once.
Darkness swallows our trail
it floats along linoleum floors
and a porcelain sink that stood in the corner
of that small kitchen where you painted your hair
so bright, so red and necessary
for that look that turned men's heads.
I was very young, no matter
still you taught me how to
paint the hairs you missed
in back of your head ~
the back of your head
where you always kept me
close at hand for secrets
hard to hold for one so young
but you needed me
and I kept your secrets
yes I did ~ for years.
I wish that I could dream of you
just once ~
and the days when your brown eyes
smiled at me and your soft hands
touched my face, and remember how
love must have been ~ once.
Joanne Cucinello