Red Tears

Red Tears

The room transforms colors and sounds as
I pick and choose different crayons from the urn,
Drawing a picture of Mama and me holding hands.
Coloring in her cheeks, rosy and affectionate.
Coloring and humming, humming and coloring,
Precisely, unhurried, methodical. 
Mama used to color this way.

An unexpected light filters in as a door opens
Illuminating the picture I thought I was drawing
A muddy butcher knife,
Treacherous bunk beds and a cradle,          
Dried up vomit clinging to the calico shag carpeting.           
Clean it up, Mama said two days later, but I haven’t yet.
Fingers fiddle and squeeze the crimson shaft.

A voice from the light softly floats into my freedom.
I don’t trust it.
Soft voices cheat little kids
Making them do things,
Things they don’t want to do,
Shoving them into twisted corners with no way out.
My feet stop rocking.

This is yours, my visitor says, picking up my paper.
I remember this, she tells me.  I was lost.  We both were.
Slowly, I rock my feet back and forth as she rocks hers.

I watch as she colors red tears on Mama’s face.
In stages, we color.
Precisely, unhurried, methodical. 
Mama used to color that way.