I Tell You It's Snowing

It’s not enough, you say We’re killing mom and I’ll never be the same. You pinch my cheeks like Maybe you’ll bring back your life, Long gone, In my blank canvas, Sometimes painted but I always grow to Hate my work and I wash it all away, Paint it flesh-pale, start over tomorrow. In any case I’ll grab yours in return, Dull gray as you are, Only to turn your head to the window. I’ll tell you, Look— Just look. And I’ll ask what you see maybe you’ll say snow. Or trees. Or houses or the road or a cold winter day. Likely, you’ll say the falling ashes are just Mom’s way of trying to clean up after us But of course it’s too late Of course we’ll burn away the ashes in Fire after fire and bomb after bomb and We’ll build our foundations on the ruin We’ll tell them it was glorious, We’ll never mention mom. But I tell you look harder because I see powdered sugar (Mom trying to sweeten us, maybe— Lord knows we need it) And the frosted sky, And the openness of air, And the donut-hole stack smiling sloppily back And beans sunk in the sugar, Indication of joy I tell you mom still loves us. I tell you I still love her. You don’t believe me. Not even when I tell you It’s snowing . . . (April 14, 2018)