Have You Seen My Mother

plates crack upon impact with the tiles that coat my kitchen floor, my mother stands between marble counters, peering at me through eyes of haze, recognition does not register. as I stand, stoic and solid, I wonder which one of us has truly gone fishing, which of us has seemed to misplace any sense of mind. I lay beneath cotton and threads, the television blares in the hallway, colors flicker on and off my doorway. I lay still, clenching and unfurling fists, afraid that the madness that lingers in the air, all around me, might seep into my skin as a I sleep, and that I might awake with eyes like kaleidoscopes, living in various shades of blunt and brittle reality