49
Thinking about your hair
in the wind,
hands on the wheel,
strong and olive toned, and,
the mommy mask you had
packed in that cedar trunk.
The chest with your wedding veil
and wigs,
all the well wishes for a bright future
and my baby book.
Thinking about your stories
from behind a steering wheel,
cigaret tales
of your life,
the possibilities of mine,
your parables,
warnings.
Ruminating on Trust,
the way you
capitalized the T in tone,
the shadow
behind a tree,
in the wood,
how to see
in the dark.
A crowbar under your seat,
knife strapped to your garter,
pearl handled
lady’s piece and
a bottle of mace.
Thinking about the times
we crashed,
a snowmobile,
a jeep,
granny’s Lincoln
and that last breath.
(persian rugs
peacock blue
scent of opium
hair like silk fringe
raven to your waist)
Scheherazadian.
There is no road back,
Mamo,
but there is still
a path when
I feel lost.
(fast lane
small car
top down
leather gloves
dapper hat
cigaret holder
always driving
highways
alley-ways)
I still detest a license plate.
There is no more
pain
or loss
(Mamo),
it’s all
dirt on a
trail,
fossils of arrowheads
and rot.
I saw you driving away,
what a fire
and mess of smoke
that crash caused,
It was blinding for a while.
Adieu,
my sweet Mamo.
Adieu,
from another life,
fast and far away.
Adieu to you,
for now-
My yt channel:
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCBk3MjXsRH6L9S3IRhASklw
