Dysfunctional Families, Murder, and Dead People.

Bone Thin

On earlier days,
mother placed flower silhouettes
along the sill
blanketing the bedside window
whenever sirens came by.

And shielded me with her bone-
thin arms,
shielded my ears from the sound of gunshots
and breaking glass.

Morning's cape of stale air
tossed her, wide eyed on the
spring struck mattress,
white powder scattered from end to end-
her voice barely venturing to crawl
inside my ear.

On mornings I complained of burnt oatmeal,
but swallowed it's dry grains
just to see her smile at me,
with those crooked teeth
and cracked lips curling up,
refurnished with blood dye and scar tissue.

On earlier days,
I longed to feel that smile again.