And Painted the Floor

I would not normally repost things not thematically related to this blog, but Kindra is worth your support in this time.


In the kitchen

my mother was dead with no religion;

she’d bumped her head and painted the floor.

Dead head red


Mother were your eyes closed or open?

Only the cat knows

as well as policemen.

Bloated bag of bones

drained and taking space in chest of drawers…

you don’t belong there but what can I do?

I’ve never been good at saving you.

You wait for the oven that will


your wishes.

Don’t fret mother;

your girls won’t toss the dirt on you.

We will wear your body dressed in silver

displayed ‘round our necks.

No one can hurt you now.

Not your mother or your father;

not corrupt Jehovah

who’d abandoned you at sixteen years


Mama 19 again at 24;

You weren’t perfect but you were ours

and you were beautiful even at your ugliest

because we knew you loved us

so fucking hard it…

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