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by k. Author IconMail Icon
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Biographical · #2272516
A poem about my mother
My mother is a treasure trove of anxieties,
Each jewel of illness more lustrous than the last
She is delicate in the way that secrets are,
Every mood a new outfit to try on.
I do not ask her about when she found her brother with
half a face. Smells like gunpowder and cooked meat.
She is capriciously joyful but mostly very anxious and sad.
I don’t ask her why she is sad, I assume it is the same reason as everyone else.

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