It was no ordinary day.
Though the rains came and the trees drank
you left us still, and slipped away.

I doodled on the bed spread, drew
a seventeen year old flower.
Cleaved to the design of your demise.
Mourning, this wretched hour.

I knew your Mother once.
She was a peculiar sort of dame. Full of
light and darkness, she never
remained the same.

When you left her, I watched her spit
and chew. Gnawing her own heart
as she ate her self inflicted blame.
Gristle, bone, and nerves erased
wiping her soul, to clean her fate.

Then I saw her mouthing your wordless name.
Said she thought she knew it after all.
But it was dreary ~ and certainly no ordinary day.


© Janet Caldwell 2009