Mom, you were born on the Day of the Dead
Tell me, what’s the prescription pill for that?
I make up rhyming couplets to break apart
Wrap the pieces in newspaper and give to orphans
You were a salt stain on my white collared-shirt
I wore it on your special day when it rained for hours
You touched my arm, “Who are they?” you whispered
Ashamed of not knowing and knowing you should
The whole world a reflection in the mirror of another mirror
Distant and getting further from the origin of memory
Are we to call ourselves your children or you our mother
If tonight you’ll be a young girl again, again a virgin
It is better we engage you like a parent to a child
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no
Our mantra against spells, our promise of betrayal
Doctor’s orders, diet changes, daily doses, diaper rations
We gather our anger and form a faith around its tenets
If you’re the image of God, than it’s only fitting he should forget you
We don’t say what we all came here to say
Instead we watch you flicker like paper aflame
For a moment we let ourselves believe you recognize us
And we hold onto that dream like you do your neurons