Going Through A Dead Mother’s Room
This door, I opened first
the iron key slippery in my wet hands
clanging on the floor as I wiped my palms on a red floral skirt
turning slowly in the keyhole
as if stabbing and twisting into my very heart
This floor, I stepped on first
my white ballet flats raising dust
golden sprites floating to land on the tip of my nose
footprints following me as I forged on
This chest, I touched first
my fingers feeling the chipped edges of the wood
my nails tracing the carved horses, a battle beside silk brocade
I lifted her portrait, and she looked back at me, daring me
This letter, I read last
After pushing the dust drunk wool aside
After pretending to look at old browning photographs
After learning that I was a coward
This truth, I know now
I saw it in her words
Grotesquely yellow thighs spread
A warm heart beating behind a cold façade
A hope surviving
That this daughter of a whore
Would be more
