In that film you loved, a ghost
arrives unaware of its passing
and speaks to those with sensitive
abilities. We watch and laugh
at the freak who hears voices
and whispers to the dead. Perhaps
this is why I say nothing about
your mother who sits beside
you, transparent as a négligée.
She is afraid of what will
transpire if the truth is told.
Once, after a bad argument, you
left me alone with her in one of her
moods. She upturned the house,
the kitchen a flood of broken birds
and glass, our Blue Willow wedding
China severed at the beaks.
When you return, less irate but
filled with illusion, you slip and
cut open your hand. Stunned by
the separation of skin and lines,
you turn to me for answers.
Do you remember that movie about
the mother who killed her children?
Suffocated them in their sleep with a pillow?
Who didn’t realize she was gone until
the medium appeared and asked,
“What happened to you in this room?
What did your mother do to you?”