Her parents told her if she married that man,
my father, it would be a slow yet painful
agonizing death of regrets.
I always thought mother was closer than
she needed to be, as she cried in her
loneliness for her sanity of childhood
fantasies she hung on to with hope.
The war had broken out and he left her
with child, oh sure she was swept up by
his heroism and masculinity, but why
did he have to leave her with yet
She never really knew him, she just got
swept away by his lies and being told it
was time to marry, after all everybody
did back then, and a man talked a streak
to get his woman to break and let
him in her bed.
A dowry was saved, as her future came
with laughter froth with tears for a man
she didn’t know, but trusted all those years.
It all turned into jealousy and madness,
and the sadness that encompassed them
was built around complete chaos and
mourning hangovers from the nights
before, when he would drag her across our
living room floor.
Yet she forgave him with words like,
a drunkard doesn’t know what he is
doing and can be such an unpredictable fool,
she said to me with eyes teary and cheeks
slapped rosy stained
Complete insanity her vanity a flower child
crushed, her pedals plucked and torn and
her soul scorned for simply being a mother
and a good one at that, but cheapened
by his fists.
Looking through the kaleidoscope
she often told me, there were good times
with your father, but you can’t talk a
mean dog down while he is frothing
at the mouth.
He left us on her 40th birthday, the Dicks
made sure by cuffing this hood and jerked
him from us for good, she left and took us
kids with her welfare check, and tried to
make her fantasies come true,
it never happened.
So death it was, yet painful and slow
and 15 years tomorrow no sorrow is
cast in stone on his epitaph, we laughed
and walked away from the father
I never knew.
On the other side of heaven where
the angels sing in accord, sit’s a flower child,
my mother, with scented curly black locks,
skin as white and fresh as melting snow,
looking down at her son, blowing him a kiss
of remembrance from long ago RIP sweet
angel of mine for “I will find you.”
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved