To the Man who Killed my Mother
There was always a sense of urgency about her,
as if there was so much love in the world,
you had to run fast enough or
you wouldn’t catch it. Ironic that
you threw her shoe out of a moving car.
She often trusted strangers; you weren’t
the only one who took advantage –
you were just the first. Funny,
how you closed doors, while you opened others.
I bet you don’t even remember the colour
of her hair, her eyes, or the many shades of
her screams. Did you hear the longing in them?
Did her name ever grace your lips
the way her kisses did?
I don’t blame you for what you did;
it’s all about genetics and chromosomes.
I’m just angry that she is no longer
herself, without your ink on her skin.
Do you cultivate flowers now,
instead of sexual identities?
Did your germination end with her – or was she just
a filament of sunshine?
Her funeral was farcical and oddly
beautiful. She was naked (tattoos bandaged),
shoes on both feet.
© 2017 Lisa Mulrooney