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9:57 AM Posted In Family , life , poetry Edit This 0 Comments »While this isn't what I had in mind for my anti-suicide poem, it's what happened when my pen hit the page.
I.
Last night, my mother called me a coward.
She said I’d let myself be victimized.
But she never knew the ghosts
That used to haunt me.
She doesn’t know all the times I’ve
Wanted to tell her about my
Invisible battles with the past.
How my television tears weren’t
A sign of my sympathy
But the bond of unity.
She doesn’t know how many times
I’ve turned and touched my ghosts
And told them to stop haunting me
And how I’ve made them listen
And undid my status as their victim.
II.
Last night, I dreamt I was my mother
Discovering her older brother - dead.
I don’t know what Bobby looked liked,
But he was wearing a red flannel shirt.
I never knew the ghosts that haunted her.
I haven’t known how she carried her
Brother’s memory and how
My behavior kept bringing it up.
How all the times she
Saw me faltering and wanted
To take that pain herself.
I don’t know how many times
She's had to reach out and touch him
And tell herself it wasn’t her fault
And tell herself she did her best
And tell herself that she can move on.
III.
My mother mentioned Bobby once
In a letter to me, last year.
There was a line where the ink smudged
And the paper crinkled over some.
I think she must have been crying a little.
I stopped at that line.
I wanted to reach back in time
And say Don’t Do It, Uncle Bobby
Wanted to undo all the wrongs
That led him to this final turn
Don’t Do it, Uncle Bobby
Because forty years in the future
Your sister still weeps for you.
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