You died.

You died on 30 November

For as long as I can remember

The desire to write for you

Has preoccupied my daydreaming

And I cannot believe

Those are the first words I utter

Born November 1 and dead November 30th

Mamma here is your daughter

Lost. Hungry for your skin


Another dirge without water.

Bricks and mortar

Running water

Light. Sanitation


The things we all take for granted

Not present there in the soil and the stink

And the steel.

Do you remember

The chair from Tashie’s office

That needed some love

You said it was mine later

And I dreamt of it shiny, polished

We put the pillow you crocheted on

And the butterfly’s green caught that

Retro red

It was perfect.

Embedded into the dirt

I found it that day.

The table we sat at so many marvelous meals



A graffiti tree.

Slumping there as lost as me.

The daybeds for my porch

In some meth addict’s


With her greedy beady eyes and her arrested speech

So clipped

We’ll put them with the big 5 sofa, her tongue flicked

And I attempted to picture the cheap velour

The realistic animals and your surreal splendour

Lumped together

Regret, regret

My pampered pet

My eyes swelled shut

My pillow wet

From end to end my being aches for you

A clever lover once wrote me

And never did this ring so true

As now that I ache for you.

Ai Mamma

I sigh

A million times a day.

Exhale into the nothing

You left

Since you went away.


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