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A Quiet Poem For Mother
by Deborah Russell

There is nothing amazing about a quiet poem
it won't feed the hungry or save the world
it will hardly be noticed with it's frail words,
delicate, sparrow-like, small and unable
to defend itself in open space

I feel her emptiness as if it were my own
the loss of her youth, her fragile dreams
cast far into the background
of Kodak moments...
The texture haunts me
and reminds me 
of my own empty bed
She said she still sleeps
in the same awkward position,
waits for the weight of his arm
to fall across her hip, waits
for the familiar musk of his skin
I watch her move uncomfortably
around the bedroom, she sees
everything, except what she wants to see

On her dresser is a dusty collection,
a covered box with his army badges
and postcards from Paris, Nice, and Bern ...
I remembered the day of the funeral
and how fearfully and timidly she asked,
"Do you think he ever really loved me?"
I watch as she looks at his pillow
and all I can do - is hope,
hope that she doesn't ask me again 

 


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