VISITING MOTHER'S GRAVE
This is the first time you've been
to her grave. You've brought anemone flowers.
You remember your father's description
of her last hours, the bed bloodied,
the baseboards and lower walls red,
smeared with hand prints where she
had made her way on her knees
back to bed. Where were you?
Three thousand miles away, her
last memory of you that
of a son who didn't care enough
to be there.
Your thoughts are interrupted
by a flurry of wind. Leaves, like animals fleeing from a fire
snag in the netting of your hair,
cling to your chest like birds
flying blindly into fences.
You brace against the afternoon storm,
the spray of rain flying in your face
as your mother lies under a layer of mud
and strewn flowers, your vase
knocked over as if by her
dismissive hand
Bob Bradshaw is a programmer living in Redwood
City, CA. He is a big fan of both the Rolling Stones and winning
lottery tickets. He hopes to win a lottery soon and sail through
retirement in a hammock. Recent and forthcoming work of his can
be found at Eclectica, Lucid Rhythms, Orange Room Review, Poetry
Friends, Loch Raven Review and Halfway Down the Stairs.
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