The Day Before My Mother Died

Hillary Smith-Maddern

My sadness sways in the doorway draped in silks, her body a planet refusing to spin. Mouth etched with railroad crossings she speaks lugubrious truths in a voice reeking of winter. She burbles. A measured volcano erupting thick, sweet cream. Even if I lick her clean, something will survive to flow again. Her impenetrable silence will sprout centipede limbs, will slither to other doorways, will sound like the midnight end of a cigarette when she whispers, This is the last time you will see your mother.