lilacs

she wrote about her mother’s legs but i’m too cowardly to do so. i want to write about my mother’s month. october & all the indigo skies & all the artichoke hearts & all the yarn. i try to, i try to. to talk about her lack, the progression, & the fear thereof. i try to talk about her pain, her loss, her grief. about her eyes & her hands. but the left one cannot grip & everything slips & i don’t want to find her giving up because she is oxygen, explosive & necessary & sustaining & i am a rubber band because she made me. she smells like pathways through avalanches & lilac bushes & fresh skin, made new with astringent & aspartame. i miss her when she is sitting right next to me & when i’m a decade away from moving back home. mama hates that i call her mama & her soft tummy & her gray hairs. mama hates waking up to another day in a body that has spent the last twenty-five years betraying her over & over again. i hate the nervous system, the immune system, the human brain & her first neurologist. why did god think myelin was a good idea anyway? why did god think any of this was okay? she asks me if i believe in god & i believe in her so yes. i still do & i carry it with me like a parka in june. i’m sweating & huffing & oh i’m so parched because she never drinks enough water & subsists mostly on eggplant & diet coke & pepperoni. i have her face & it makes me want to scream. i have her face & i am so thankful that i will always get to carry her reflection with me. she doesn’t remember the movie we watched last night but she remembers butterfly tears & softball games & high school musicals. she remembers my hair short & nails bitten & vizsla paws. i don’t remember when she wasn’t sick. this is the only mother i’ve ever known & i would shrink down & fight her immune system myself if only i was miss frizzle or tommy pickles or someone bold enough to do enough. her feet are swollen, her legs are slow, she teeters off balance & grabs ahold of the arm of the couch to keep her steady & i’m not ready for the next decade or the one that follows. i spend all my time scrolling so an idle brain can’t retrace my actual fears & my tiny little butterfly tears. i kiss her forehead, her sweet, smooth face. the one i’m destined to carry on in her place. this poem has no ending, just progresses on & on, just like her illness, just like the sun,