i wish she didn’t

the name of my father
now barely holds a place
in her billowing thoughts
instead she talks about
the things left ungrazed
by the touch of a man

car tools left to
collect cobwebs at the
darkest corner of
the kitchen cabinet

roosters at our backyard
fend for themselves
scratching the earth until
it bleeds something to
satisfy their hunger

the space beside her bed
remains cold and unused
everytime she stirs she feels
that there’s something missing
a pair of arms to hold her
vulnerable frame, perhaps

the light inside the bathroom
remains untouched, broken
and everytime i go in i forget
like the way my mother
sometimes forgets that father
no longer wishes to come back
and I wish she didn’t

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