Mother’s Day

I think I would prefer to die
my second death

Now while the scent of him lingers yet
in the soiled clothes strewn around on the
floor of his bedroom

While his footprint remains oil on glass
from our last long road trip
on the windshield of my car
valuable no longer for its re-sale value
nor cargo carrying capacity
but only for this fading track

While his voice is still trapped in someone’s answering machine
Why can’t it be mine?
so that when they come to town
they can play it for me
They haven’t yet erased it
but they will

Before I close my eyes and can no longer see his eyes
Or the dimple in his cheek
Or the mole on his back
Or the dozen other things
that made him mine
especially, mostly, but never all

Before I have lost all trace
and the fine line between memory
and fantasy blurs
and he becomes a saint
or a hero
or a legend

Instead of just a boy
Whom I loved above all others,
All else, present

In the silent aftermath of my
first and last deep breath

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