Momma


Olive eyes, like the Pimento type.
A great green with red centers
for when she was angry. Sometimes,
more brown like chocolate; as warm
and sweet too.
Momma, how I wish you'd run with me.
I know you hate it here too, Momma.
I understand how you lived under a black sky,
lit by the moon, the only noise a crackle of
flame licking at the air whistling
your hair about your face.
Momma, it was magic!
And sometimes at the beach, the sand slipped
from between our fingers and the water licked at our toes,
asking us to come for a swim.
You weren't afraid of nothin' Momma.
Remember that giant eucalyptus tree in our front yard?
And the sailboat in the back, no sails.
We could have been best friends, you and I.
C'est la vie. But I still love you, Momma.
Let's try again.
Maybe we can put the sails on that old boat and
take it for a whirl.

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