961

So much tweaking has gone into this poem, and I can never be happy with it, even after I handed it in for my Creative Writing class. I just feel this constant need to edit it and make it better. But I guess that's how you know that something's close to your heart. Here's what I've got:

My Mother’s Room

My mother’s room is unpredictable
What lies beyond the door is beyond me
Sometimes I walk in to find a basket of fresh laundry
I always smell the clothing labels
“Hand-washed by Mama.”

Sometimes I walk in to find my mom praying
The Bible in her lap
Her eyes closed and hands folded,
Just like she taught me.
I like to think she’s thanking
But sometimes I wonder if she’s begging

Sometimes I see her drowning in her lungs
She breathes in
And they would be filled with things that are not
78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, 1% argon, 0.03% carbon dioxide
And what she breathes out
Is toxic
The kind of toxic that takes
And takes from you
In increments

Sometimes I peek through the crack to see her sleeping
The way a bear hibernates
To escape the cold
As if sleep and the realm of dreams

Will take her far away from here
And closer to where she needs to be.