Are you asking for Mother?
Well, you won’t find her here. You can search all you want.
Go look into her closet that smells of rotten berries and starch.
Raze her bed; raze it off the sickly sweet whiff that permeates from the sheets.
Take a peek inside the kitchen; you won’t witness her breaking that soft loaf of bread,
Her ample behind busying itself around the kitchen, fretting over the crumbs, a sweet song lilting off her luscious lips while her legs tiptoe in a light tread.
You won’t find her here, just like the cops didn’t.
What happened to Mother, you ask?
Oh that’s easy, she ate herself into a tizzy and then dissolved in a whirlpool of pity.
Do you think I am joking, about my own Mother?
Oh, you didn’t see what I saw?
And you didn’t do what Father did?
At first, it was the song that perished on her lips. It died, died in her tongue because she bit it enough to bleed and burn.