MOM'S WALLS

Mom's walls make no sound

At Mom's house, the wood floors
Haven't seen a broom-
The dust floats in cotton puffs
Around the corners, as her
Doors open and close slowly.

All the dreams live in soiled boxes
Under her bed, closed off to eyes,
Photos I've never seen - hiding
In collasping paper and yellowing sheets
Of Crumpled plastic.

Breakfast is dark coffee that fills
The house with it's burnt odor, Tempered by cream
Dad pours a few drips at a time.
She'd rather would have been making
Sandwiches and lunches but She didn't make one - now
her hands are cracked

At dusk she visits the yard remembering
A tended garden and the bounty from it
But never the details of who did it
(No never that.)
She won't remember.

Beneath her sleep, the stars never bloomed
Stars that called me desparately
How many cold stars
In her embrace - How many?
I can't count.

Open mom's cabinets and see the same
Cracked dishes and cups there,
Never replace, never.
Each drawer is filled with sharp knives
and a warning - don't touch them.

My mom weaves a nest of sleep
A forgotten nest there
But I'm not able to incubate my sleep
Because she shakes the air
And tells me to wake quickly.

~Dave~
19 Feb 05

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