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I'm An Orphan Of Ashes.

Updated on March 6, 2010


Orphan of Ashes


Her Mu-Mu

hangs in the closet
like a really loud

shower curtain
and sometimes it

calls me to sniff it,
recapturing the

scent of her.

It carries a faint

trace of her perfume,
in the huge flowered

prints it bears.

A pair of white canvas

loafers sits below it,
right where she

stepped out of them
and into enternity.

A couple of paperbacks

with weak spines,
lie open on the page

she paused at.

One might almost

expect her to waltz in
and shimmy into

this garish garment,
slip on her loafers
and just pick up

on chapter four.

But she's tucked

neatly in an urn,
on a coffee table

 at my sisters,

Now she's surrounded

by silk flowers
much like the ones

on this Mu-Mu.

I can't bring myself to
throw this stuff away,
it's all that I have

left of Mom.

A couple of

K-mart leftovers,
some gothic

horror novels,
and  the ashes

of a love that was
beyond all expectations.

So I close the door

on this moment in time,
framed like a still life painting
minus the centerpiece,
in the back hall of

my humbled abode.









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