Mementoes

Already, the day is slow. Tired.
The plastic tarp
yawning on the fence.

My eyes are dry
from crying, from seeing
too much and too little.

Even the wind is sobbing, somewhere.
Softly. Branches hang suspended
like a doll's limbs
from the railing.

My daughter bends towards me
in the doorway. Kisses me
on the head, smelling of sadness,

of perfume and vodka.

I am scared
and tiny and broken,
and completely unworthy.

But my love for her, like a cup,
threatens to spill over.
Pulses so red, it stains the air.