Mist

version 2


Heading to her room I pass
a petrified forest of sickly limbs,
air heavy with sleep and solvents.

"Will Taylor be coming?", mother asks.
"Yes," I confirm. Again.
"I don't remember much. Don't try to."

My childhood is among those things she does not recall.  Or try to.

The loss is mine. There are words I would like to say, but to whom, bones I would like to pick, but with whom.

As I search her face for a face from my past, her eyes catch mine.
"Will Taylor be coming?"



version 1

On my way to her room I pass
a petrified forest of sickly limbs,
the air heavy with sleep and solvents.  
 
"Will Taylor be coming?", mother asks.
"Yes, she'll be here", I confirm. Again,
speaking of my daughter
"I don't remember much. Don't try to."
 
My childhood is among those things she does not recall.  
 
Or even try to.  
 
The burden of this loss is mine.  
There are words I would like to say, but to whom.  
There are bones I would like to pick, but with whom.  
As I search her face for a face from my past,  
her eyes catch mine.    
 
"Will Taylor be coming?"