Portrait of my Mother

Portrait of My Mother

I am her black surface

I am her oozing blood

I am her tearful cries for help

The echo of a voice

Out of her body

Out of her breath

She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.

Yet the way the light plays

With the havoc

She only looks wounded.

Rob Goldstein 2016

13 thoughts on “Portrait of my Mother

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