No body but the spirit lingers still.


My eyes are perpetually dry

My stomach aches

My lips itch

My face feels

like it’s burning.


I miss my mother.

I miss my mother.

I miss my mother.


I write thes words

like I expect to find her

in them.


As if there was some

magic code

that could presto

make her appear again.


On good days

I close my eyes

and imagine

my mother in a white flowing dress

like a hospital gown

Or rather like the sheets that always

covered her in the end


Her cheek resting just away from mine.


Almost touching

Not quite.


These days usually

don’t last

Overrun by stress

And class and loneliness

These days

are really moments


where I can find


in the earth’s


Its movements

and get lost

in an echo

of life

that feels too far away

from me



The bad days

are an awful lot

like the good ones.

If I am lucky

or unlucky as you might think

I manage to cry

on these days.

I am by myself

I am alone

I am myself.

and these days

the silence pounds in my eardrums

til they seem to explode

and every noise is like a whisper.


I miss my mother.

I miss my mother.

I miss my mother.


And when the wind breaks the trees,

The very earth seems to heave


Mother, where are you?

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