Mother's Ghost

Through the creaks in her step,

she tells me about influenza;

how easy it is to catch. Like a baby 

falling from a cradle, I have fallen 

from the clouds, spanked by the 

Sun’s rays and into her arms, a twisted 

baby doll caught in cobwebs.

Still she thinks I would look happier

with my hair in pig-tails,

eyelashes curled, darkened,

cheeks lighter, less cruel and

eyes the size of Suns,

yet those eyes stay unmoved

little crescents in the sky.

In her asbestos lacy whites,

she pulls back the covers of

my sky,

breaks me from sweet dreams

to the harsh stretch of light;

I only wish for darkness

silky and smooth,

velvet chocolate royal blue,

the purples that drip off scarves,

and a silent wind.

We share faces,

microscopic familiars.

My dreams are rooted 

from hers, outdated and sad,

though I try to find a face 

to call my own.

And after day breaks I head

to my position in the attic

forced to walk these hallowed halls

for all eternity.