Suns are born from the spit
of my dying mother’s tongue
((and)) from residue
her loneliness huffs out.
I am not there to witness
how black holes take form
on the cusp of her lips
when she’s crying out for me.
It’s a scene of neon glitter
star blitz bombarding
the corners of a beige
hospital room.
Constellations align on my white
knuckles like bad placed laughter;
chronicle from the Universe telling
of my mom’s collision
pending but arriving every day,
slowly moving wrinkled light
twisting deeper into void
((but)) bad karma
places me a stranger
away from bedside.
Not enough blood
could draw me into
her embrace.
God her dying is interfering
with my healing. Her dying
interferes with my healing.
Where does that place me?
How does the world still spin
when the meaning of daughter
has died from my heart?
© 2017 RAQUEL CAMPOS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note:
So a year ago, my mother had a terrible seizure. She was transferred to three hospitals in a period of four days. She lost her mind (naturally due to the seizure she went through) due to the inflammation her brain was generating. It dislocated her ability to tune into memory recall. I became a full time care-giver to her for six months. In the process of those six months my mom forgot who I was, couldn't recall my name, and could not remember at times I was her daughter.
In those moments, she would panic, hit me, push me, spit water in my face when I was trying to give her the medicine she needed, and it was a whole mess of things that really brought me down. I started balding due to the high amounts of stress I was in taking care of her, bringing her to her appointments, sleeping overnight for days at the hospital with her. Writing this was therapeutic to me and I haven't really written about that period of my life as much as I should. I would have moments where I needed to take breaks and just tag team my father in and be like "Here, you sleep the night at the hospital. I can't. My brain is numb, I don't have time to eat, to take care of myself, because I am so sucked into being there for her." Thinking about it...is pretty depressing. This is where this poem came from: that dark chaotic care giving place of abuse coming from the one I am trying to care for.
Model Instagram: @pola.I
Photographer & photo by: Anna Krivenkoff
