Read Poems by Justine Delacroix

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Through the Eyes of My Beloved, My Mother

Sitting this morning
head in hand
starting at my bedroom wall;
I remember my mother
sitting like this 
her tired eyes
boring holes into the sheetrock
or the streetlight 
outside our house

I remember my mother
sitting like this,
I would ask her
what is it Mumma?
what are you thinking of?
And she would reply
nothing, oh nothing,
and she would get up
to get some more coffee
or to think some more
from the kitchen window

Sitting like this
head in hand
in the mornings
boring my own holes
into my own sheetrock wall
or the telephone polls 
outside my window,
now I know
what nothing is.

Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2021

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Date: 3/14/2021 11:42:00 AM

So poignant and wonderful. Great job sharing that feeling of knowing.

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