Mama needs to write what belongs to someone else.
She needs to come apart at the seams that hold the waist so tight,
that the air becomes trapped between the branches and the roots.
Has she repeated the words to herself so many times
that they have become nameless. The mother she became
on the eve of this century’s demise
will follow her in blood to a lesser civilization.
Tonight the lights dim, flicker and close
leaving the road, her pathway from home to death—
it is dark, nameless
the sky is devoid of stars.