photograph.

sun shadows inked in sight
blink jump the dots appear
seared my eye through the glass and lens
click black click back
float off to edge.

sick.

my mother is sick
and so am i
for whatever she is
i am too

my mother is sick
she slaps herself
i watch her violent palm
hit her face

again and again
she knocks her head
her eyes shut tight
her tears escape

she screams a little
and slaps too hard
and i hear the red blood
swelling up in her face

her throat is stuffed closed
is forced open again
is constricted
is deconstructed

her hair is a mess
comes unclipped
is shaken loose
then knotted and tangled

twice a week
she strangles herself
i watch her do it
and sometimes

i even help
my mother get sick
i blow some words
to push her fists

she's made me
she makes me
feel her sick
so that one day

maybe today
i'll make myself sick.

plans.

what i want to ask is

when you plan your life
do you plan the last day of your life

do you write down in that little precious notebook
of ideas
what color your bed sheets will be
when you cough out your last
and
who will be there to witness your exit
in that comfort planned?

will it be
a saturday
conveniently so
so they could read your name in church
the very next day
so people can hear their own memories of you
slide by for a few moments
so you can watch
in your soulful form
who are the ones who cry for you?

and if you had children
what will they say
in front of your grave

or will they be there at all
since they never forgot the date
their mother ran away
with another man

that bit
among others
you had not planned.

the way you say goodbye
makes me wonder
how many times
you've said it before.