Baptism of tears

When the floods finally came
you were down in Dallas,
washing cars by day and floors by night .
They found you drinking whirlpools
amongst the sidewalks and cigarettes,
bare knuckles bleeding in the rain.

You had your followers,
institute inmates that shook their heads
and chewed their hands,
pills that held the banks from bursting.
Slowly you began to surface,
regression split the shell and gave you a name.

He took you when you were five;
I sat on your bed, watched from your window,
for twenty years I saw you playing in the yard,
heard your voice in every playground,
prayers whispered onto candle light,
washed your bedding every night.

The buzzer sounds as the door lock clicks,
the room smells of urine and bleach.
The warder points towards the window,
I sit between you and the misty garden view.
You fight to stall emotion but cry out “Mother”
and I am reborn.