The Quick And The (Possibly) Dead (Poetry)

I wonder —
                                When did I last see my mother?
Memory fades — I cannot now recall
a time — a likely year — I think it over
and it feels so long ago. My mind’s a wall

of notes — a jumbled diary of illusion —
my family of strangers set to age
and crumble — snapshot-vague — a visual rubble
with nothing left untouched where hopeless rage

has bombed the temple — toppled every statue
childhood’s gods lie trampled in the dirt
the mother figure crushed into a ruin
and marble cannot bleed — give proof of hurt.

Though I try to conjure sentimental feelings —
evoke some minor moment from the past
the exercise reads like a wishful fiction
and truth glares through the thinness of its mask.

I wonder to myself — is she still living? —
It’s odd — I cannot picture her stone face.
And if she’s gone I can’t help but be thankful
for the world’s too small — it’s time she gave me space.