Old X-Ray Poems From The Toiled Nights of My Mother

Lying in bed smoking a cigarette

An open magazine and a cold glass of ginger ale . . .

A thirteen year old boy empties mother’s ashes.

Into the dark soils of the mountain night.

She never did get to grow old.

Lying in bed with a bottle of morphine.

I stand by the foot of the bed.

Holding the ginger ale.

Tears making their way down my throat.

As mother is slowly, gradually losing her grip on life.

Father stands with a tray full of dinner.

The forest of motherhood grows dark

in the spilled ink of a blood stained letter.

Silent young children running quietly through the summer grasses.

Photographs tossed through the winds of youth.

Mother’s hand drops upon the old telephone linens of the night.

The last love letter of . . .

The last light . . .

The bottle of morphine spills into the morning of song.

Forever . . . . . . . . . .

Peter Leon

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