#anna14

These poems are about my mother. She passed in the month of April 14 years ago. Her name was Anna Rose. Her name is Anna Rose

It was one of those nights when mom decided to blow caution to the wind Kool cigarette curled inside her arthritic finger sitting outside the house on the hand-made bench dad built a glorious spring night serving as the backdrop for what had to be the millionth time we cyphered

I don’t remember the subject of our conversation I only remember her asking me if I had one of them Black ‘N’ Milds she learned of my smoking habit by happenstance in the same conversation she learned of the occasional illegal drink I would down at the Reggae club on those nights when I was exchanging the gospel of the pulpit for the gospel of the open mic

I handed her a Black pulled one out for myself she took a slow drag complimented its flavor I lit the slender body of my cigar drew the nicotine through the plastic tip and between exhales we silently accepted a new truth

After all these years I guess I finally get it, Mom

A hard head makes a soft skull wears the myelin thin sends lightning into the lumbar region shakes the core until the limbs involuntarily break dance steals the sleep but brings back all the memories

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Remember that time Donney when you felt too inconvenienced too bothered to have to pause your life to chauffeur your mama between doctor offices well look at you now, Donney the new king of co-pay generous giver of blood swallower of daily pill and vitamins heir to your mama’s tainted medical history and she can’t console you now

She’s too dead been too dead for too long now, hot shot

These poems are about my mother. She passed in the month of April 14 years ago. Her name was Anna Rose. Her name is Anna Rose.

Louisiana springs are thick with warmth infamous for grooming sunlight that rehearses daily for future higher profile appearances if the world is indeed one big stage Louisiana springs are blue-skyed backdrops with boiling pots as props and pollen as excessive make-up 

These poems are about my mother. She passed in the month of April 14 years ago. Her name was Anna Rose. Her name is Anna Rose.

By the time my mother closed her eyes to sleep away the troubles of this ole world the autopsy showed that she had been moving around with two cracked ribs it is common for sufferers of autoimmune diseases to have problems with spasticity she had fallen one too many times to avoid shattering bones brittle from steroids disguising themselves as builders