Lot's Lost Wife

A stream of conscious drift into sections of my childhood. (2010)

I don’t think back much anymore. Conscious decision,

Mine to make in a mind that

Makes no sense.

So dense

Is this jungle of vines and pines which is

Swallowed in kudzu,

The stuff you

Can’t kill without lighter fluid and a can of beer,

A pickup truck

And men known as “uncles”.

I love the smell of barbecue and gasoline.

 

Salt kills fire,

My thoughts slide back,

I am a pillar of that stuff.

The smoke in the mirror

Trailing from your cigarette

Mocking the distant mirage called

Mother.

My mother,

Sacred as the lips of God

To my child’s ears,

Is made of two faces.

One that smiles

And one that cries.

I’ll not look back

At my reflection

Wavering in my mother’s eyes.