On a Hillside

I recall, here, in this place again, my mother is dead. She stumbled back so seldom her death seemed temporary. My memories of her lie in the ground, between blades of grass and polished wood; they don’t return until I am on top of them. Panicked whispers lying cold at my feet. I come less often than she came to me, a subtle revenge wasted on rotting bones. I am here and I can smell the spirit on her. Maybe, I am only remembering that smell. Sticky, ash infused glass circles forming Hazardous Waste symbols out of sherry. Cigarette burns patterned into leopard skin, suffocating clothes left her bare to me. My childhood a ritual of mornings spent clearing away the night before, removing proof that I am the cause of the life she will never have. I recall, here, in this place again, my mother is dead. I stumble back so seldom her death seems temporary.