My Mom and Her Home
These old stones
have undressed their
plaster-clothes. Her roof
is tattered, yet she declines my call.
Fashion and novelty
never tempt her. Her soles
sometimes soil her floor, but she
doesn’t fear a stretched-out index finger.
She refuses a share
of yummy Chinese noodles
or Arabian barbecue chicken
from my kitchen beyond the fence.
She takes steamed rice
and cheap sardine curry
as five-star food to her home.
No one teases her, the ill-mannered slurps.
She hears his footsteps
from the corridor of hallucination.
Nobody chimes in, her secret whisperings.
She likes the fright, the wilderness of dark lonely nights.
Nude red stones in her wall
remain as remnants of old love.
She’ll never come to stay in our new home,
she likes to be on her own always.
First published in Silver Blade Magazine
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