January 26, 2009

(In response to the three paintings below)


"When my mother dies
I'll smoke my first cigarette of at least a thousand
that will inevitably end my life.

I will not make the bed, but turn down the sheets;
white wind hands will 
paint her face away.  I will not 
wear white.

Ashes will descend upon time
and time turn to dust. 
Dust will appear forgivable and blue.

I never will notice until 'warning' turns her light on
(Leave the light on, please),
I will do this nightmare a dirty favor
for my own peace and demise.

I will not recall Christmas decor.
Pink plastic lights
strung by papa's hands will not show
the twinkle in my short circuit.
I will not remember how 
the blue ones gave away her grace,
with a foreshadowing too early for my liking,
as she stood in the kitchen
and made me eyes from scratch 
to see through.

I will walk in circles around the wine stain 
on the carpet floor.

I will not look for 7 a.m. sunlight squares 
through the kitty door,
over-easy eggs and bacon
(kitty is long gone now). 

I won't remember holding sermon on her chest,
sternums lain to rest,
mommy lying there without me
as I will be without my self.

I will string beads like spiderwebs 
from their melting neck,
turquoises and pearls of hers, 
and I will let them stay 
a part of my body, as I 
could not be. 

I will not hear those songs I promise I would learn
but let die, those pipes in memory, 
Guitars will invoke that nothingness
where a girl once sang along to a woman's chorus 
in natural cause
that harmony remain sacred.

I will not remember, my ear to her stomach,
sounds of the blood moving. 

When moo is gone, 
I'll just let hair be hair. And hang there."

-Amber Tamblyn 

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