By Tamara Olmedo
My mother exists buried 6 feet beneath her secrets,
Wonder how she sleeps wrapped tight in blankets,
Mummified in her grief;
I imagine her ghosts funneling in and out with each breath.
Every ten years the light of the screen
bathes our features in blue.
Her fingers weave into my thick waves of hair
Twirling me back to youth and innocence.
I lay on the spot above her breast,
I sink into the scent of Dove soap and
the warmth of sunbaked Earth.
In the light of day, she comes up for air,
for a minute it’s me and her and all the things unsaid.
Silent tears spill down her cheeks when I leave,
A reflection of my own.
We hold on a little tighter,
inhale a little deeper;
But already her ghosts are calling.
