where are the memories
of mother loving me?
tiny spiders
crawl out from the cracks
of her headstone
the many times
I rolled down the stairs
as a child
her spankings hurt
more than any fall
moth wings quiver
with the slightest wind
all the things
I wish I could have done
without fear
growing up
her photos followed me
around the room
an artificial flower arrangement
stuck in an old vase
a tree branches out
with its blossoms and fruits
I didn’t know
what I wanted to be
but to be loved
you ask me why
now I write these stories
for children. . .
tears rolling down
the doll’s face are mine
