The Silence by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Image by Ralf Kunze from Pixabay

In the out-of-sync silence
I watched in an aura of
wariness my drunken
mother alone in her room,
ashes from the tip of her
cigarette falling carelessly
in a shallow bowl of heirloom
china, an ugly dark hair on
her chin that stubbornly
stayed no matter how much
she shaved. Years of growing
up I'd seen her let out her
inner rage on me and my
father, leeching any happiness
that had clung to my bones,
an embalming of the spirit
that made me want to hide
away and not be known,
so used to my mute tongue,
too afraid to tell anyone.
It was only today, at this
time, my dreams had knitted
into a dark tie having grown
up with the belief that all
fears are permanent; that,
like bone fractures, they
would heal but leave a
hairline shadow.

*****

Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in Central Point, Oregon, in the U.S.A. Her poetry has recently appeared in Vita Brevis, Cascadia Rising Review, Woods Reader, and Lost and Found: Tales of Things Gone Missing.