Mother,
you're awake in a stupor
August 11th was her parents’ wedding anniversary,
the day my father chose to propose to her
without knowing the significance
she pined to have for herself,
that crumpled and stained love that is held
within the gold oval frame
around her parents' gray wedding photo.
Now she sits on the sofa
with faded hair freshly cut to her ears
and the plastic cup is loose in her hand,
the red wine spilling down her legs
and onto the cushion.
She says the sky molded clouds
into a heart and arrow,
a sign from Jesus that found her
once each week.
She’s crying and laughing and asking
for the roll of paper towels
that’s already soaked in red.
She’s asking me for a painting of Jesus,
because from me it would mean something,
in the same way
her nightly prayers to the lord
are soft-spoken
and now she’s asking for more wine
because it’s pooling up on the floor.
