TAINTED QUERY

Why do I think
so easy of loss,
feel cold empty
gray as the North Sea,
lack the pink illusion
of love, the green
sturdy tree
of true hope,
recall bruised lonely
blue months
and moments
of sorrow, drink
considerable endings’
thin bitter milk
with no color?

Mother, if you’re here
answer me please,
now at the base
of the stair,
speak through your tears,
your lostness,
your salt.
I ask you
to hold dear
in your chapped
freckled hands
my sad
anxiously yearning
heart.

For I’m a small
tender boy
trapped inside
crusted black
contours of pain,
crouched down
in a capsule
of burnt shriveled
skin within
your parental
command.

January 1, 2009