mother
trying to be pleasant to my mother is:
a hitler-hug
cyanide sandwich, spit-ball sucking knee-jerk
open sore car accident
sandpaper, glass.
it is the moment between “yes,” and “but”, when
you can almost see that hopeful soul
nodding on the other line,
fingernails three-quarters gone with the glass on the precipice of half full
/ half empty
my mother in her nightly show
her hourglass not so shapely,
hidden behind gaudy nineties lace and cigarette stains and lies about where he went
and how much it hurt
and why the bad man stole our stereo
somehow,
you miss her.
you always miss her
— beverley fredborg
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