Mother ( I )

Her fingernails had been cut short
Nearly to the skin.
Ten thin white bands on each tip.
Ten rolling pins flattening a white
Napkin, smoothing it, jittering, like
Some great Olympian molding a plain
Or basin, a bowl for the ocean of her pain.

Her once-sculpted hair was limp,
Burgundy lips cracked with their
Absence of color. Her smile, amplified with
Twitches, and her eyes cradled a
Plate-grating wildness as she looked
Off into the valley of her thoughts.
Zip ties for shoelaces.
String is the enemy.

I had never been in an ambulance
Before. Neither the aft, nor the fore –
Fear wrangling me, face lassoed to
Dry and wet. Never felt it slide back
Into the sloughed off with such agility before –
Before, before, before
Her vomit parted the water
With two empty bottles, witnesses, weapons,
Stationed on the floor.



© 2015 BENJAMIN SMITH