I once loved the transparency of the woman
who used to be my mother.
when I was five and sick she’d cover me
and i could see right through her;
how she wanted to kiss my eyelids and make me smile;
how she wanted me to feel better.

That died though somewhere between seven and twelve
which, granted is a lot of years,
but it took her a long time to fill out and become
the corpse who used to love me.

Then she became some strange, wretched load
of heavy; all frizzy halo hair and no more eyelid kisses.
She saved that affection for
the bottles of Valium she hid from my father,
and for the wasted wonderful that was herself.