17
The cellar door is sealed to keep the flesh
flies out. It is now a wall with a mirror. She
applies her Lancome lipstick and liquid liner.
This place needs some sprucing.
We are in the entryway sorting
through socks. I can’t find any matches.
It is raining. There are books and bones
and soggy boxes stacked to the ceiling.
I forget what is inside.
She climbs familiar stairs with me. Clutches
her black pocket book and flip phone.
I wonder how it is still charged.
I have never seen some of these rooms.
My mom is touring my mind and I will it
to be remodeled and beautiful---but nothing
has changed: The beds are unmade;
the toilets are unflushed; the holes are even
larger in the carpets that have been fading
here since 1983. And I’ve tried to turn off
every light to hide the mess I know
she sees. It is 3:00 AM and I am not sure
if I am awake. I think she is still in a cluttered
corner of my bedroom gathering scraps
of paper and tape to wrap my present.
Don't peek or it will ruin the surprise---