Mum’s blue dress is mine now.
As if her anxiety, her manna was not enough. Her golden cell has become my prison. Life is like that. Very much a waterfall once you turn your back on it. Making drawings of chairs and toys. From childhood. It starts with a botanical memory. We are not trees. We move on. If you were brought up in church. Her lungs are a signal. Lost to her children. She is the flying sun. Moonlight and Valentino. I think she wants to take a lover. Here comes Jordan. Here comes the River Jordan. Here comes Moses. Here comes Jonah and the Whale. Her flesh is still beautiful. The blue dress when she wears it is still elegant. The words that come out of her mouth are in parrot fashion. There is a waterfall in the pleats of the dress. She sings gospel out of tune. She is an inglorious mother. She goes to spiritual meetings. She speaks to mediums.
Is she in need of a psychiatrist? A loving husband? Children who adore her? On the other hand, a god who will listen to her.
© Abigail George