For my Late (S)Mother

No one left to
Lay waste this

To make
Of child.

Reeling in all the while
For the final strike.

No strike
Is more profound
Than what’s been saved
For last.

And you were sure
To make a show of it.

You made certain
I’d know.

Momma’s been waiting
All the while.
Honing axe
And splintered heel.

Hanging death for
Final blow.

That night she traded
For mirth
And birthed
My biggest fears.


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Filed under mother, poem, poetry, suicide

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