Catalogue

Deep in the cavity of my chest resides a catalogue of questions for you

How long did you labor to give me life

What worries drifted in your mind while you held me 

in the hours only mothers occupy

Did you feel sick at the sight of things you once loved

And did your feet swell under the weight of your belly

On the day you lost your own mother, 

Did you wail like you did when you took your first breath 

And wait for her to hold you 

And are you waiting still

What will it be like when the tree that grew me from a tiny seed 

Is cut down and turned into wood chips

And how long will I search for the shape of your hands 

In your sisters’ fingers, nails and bones

To find they’re just fun house mirror versions of you 

Once before dawn broke over our sleepover 

My friend heard you singing along with your guitar

Wonder on her face, having thought it the radio

I laid there feeling so smug

because my mom had pipes made for light rock 105

Why didn’t I put your voice in a bottle

If I knew I’d need it someday

And when I am rotten and unkind

Steam sputtering from the release valve of my malice

Reveling in how good it feels to be that way

Who will ask if I’m better than these actions

Who will remind me that nothing feels as good 

As being good 

Where will your laugh go

Three quick chimes and a long inhale 

No one thinks I am funny the way you think I am funny

Who feels like living in a world without your laugh 

And what if I find myself holding a baby 

Who’s name you don’t know

Anchored to a question I forgot to ask

In the hours only mothers occupy 

Without my mother. Then what?