#poetry mothers mompoem heartbreak

[asweetgrape]

for my mother

at 7 the brown suede pullout couch that consumed two corners of my room that come to think of it even 7 year old me thought was ugly was where i first saw you cry. perched on the edge of the couch your wet tears invisible to me through pieces of your thinning hair curtains your round face punctuated with unnaturally arched brows and cheekbones to match. 

i always loved your brows. the long              dreamy            shimmering baby blue path from your   uneven        eyelids to your brows now drenched from the first grown-up tears i’ve witnessed on the brown suede pullout couch that consumes two corners of my room that was the first day i met you. the smoke from your cigarette settles into stillness but you kept the list of regrets in your next pack that you’d never smoke. 

your tears extend their arms towards me and the smoke whispers behind my ear as we sat: 

me, brother, and dad watching you unravel. i’m sorry.

at 18 i snatched your love traded it for a pack

     or independence 

                          or whatever 

hid it deep in my duffel and left you for fucking                      oregon where the trees kiss the fog and the moss sing for the weeping clouds. where i kissed one too many california fuck-ups 

transplanted in portland: “he just couldn’t           do          LA.” at 18 on the honey brown leather couch wrapped in the blanket you knitted me that consumed just one corner of my room.

perched on the edge of my sofa my tears invisible to no one through pieces of my thick hair 

curtains my round face punctuated with slightly arched brows now drenched from the first grown-up tears no    one    had              witnessed. longing for smokey i love you’s to fill my tear soaked lungs. 

now we sit on a new brown sofa no longer suede, it’s canvas, from the brooklyn ikea next to dusty dressers that have to suck in to keeps its doors shut for storing your yarns  whose fibers tickle my nostrils and ears that may or may not be used within the year. 

we live closer to the park than the river where you spend your days weaving us back together 

a scarf that spells i love you.