Good Greif

I miss my mother like chitlins without hot sauce;

numbness saturates my tongue

as I crave for thanksgiving dinner to

seep

from her breast.



I seek an amniotic satisfaction;

Warm, thick, spicy like

gumbo juice at the bottom of the pot.



         After thought:  My body holds a dented soul

                              Her hands hold on to me,

                              I look down and see her hands

                              Forgetting I carry them with me.



         I almost forgot.



A glimpse of a shadow

A finger on my back

Hands on my face

Manicured a sultry red, missing

From the thesis

With no equation-



My face rains

hard and

brutal and

like a Georgia Tempest, a moment is its longevity but the damage from the hail remains.



Blink



Black, silky, and seductive dress to modify my

figure and

all I have left to show for it

is payless shoes;

When I feel upon her empty shell and mourned a rotten, soiled,

capsule.



Momma

My belly button hurts.



A hole in the pit of my stomach,

sincerely stewing

wax, lint, sautéed in sweat grimes-

The grave of my umbilical connection.



Corded with my nutrients good and healthy I stand

Yet I am still left unfed;



I encompassed her insides, dwelled within her limitations, boiled

and cooked to perfection,

I played music on her ribs to the beat of her drum;



We jammed.



So

like

unsweetened cornbread,

life lost its flavor

my gilded dollar rusted to a penny



Her spirit bathed in my dream

Heavenly Aloha

Muchos gracias.