Mom

There was a comfort

knowing that I could hear 

your voice,

melt into your arms,

watch the shadows cast

on your face

and know how to bring

light into your eyes.

There was comfort in loving,

in living,

in a shared meal,

an anecdote,

in silent moments.

There was comfort 

I no longer find,

the one I felt in your womb 

or your gentle hand

on my burning forehead 

when I was sick.

I have no church or synagogue

to find refuge in.

I seek the museums 

of the world

where we once walked 

together,

I walk alone.

In their splendor

I feel you like a gentle wind

beside me,

urging me to see the magnificence. 

The art fills my soul

with curiosity and wonder.

I find you there,

loving me,

giving me the will

to find the essence

in the beauty of this life.

Unvarnished

The mirror shards,

sharp as the strands of grey hair,

unvarnished 

like the redwood trees.

You would not recognize

the resilient starfish

left on the shore 

to die.

You were a stray dog

that followed me home.

I let you into 

my consciousness.

You wagged your tail,

you licked my face

with adoration

before you barked.

When you bit me,

I put you down.

I was sober,

you were not.

I was not a munequita

to chew and spit out.

Blindfolded I was lured

by the darkness,

misery I mired in.

You set fire and scorched

our landscape.

I  rose from the ashes,

while 

you

became a 

ghost

of the past.