This piece illustrate a mother's innate knowledge about her daughter's drug dependence.
|Walking through the red front door
Friday of Thanksgiving break, it’s you,
my daughter, but pencil arms hang
at your side, long brown hair stretches
down your face. 5’5’’—
a pale sack of bones
in a pink fitted sweater.
I wrap my arms around
your rail body; your
empty squeeze tells me I
am right. My hug released,
I back you against the
white closet wall, ask you
to climb on the
scale: 98 flashes across its electric screen.
You respond the cafeteria food tastes like garbage.
Minutes from now you’ll excuse
yourself, sneak up the carpet stairs.
You’ll lock your bedroom door
and practice what college taught.
Your appetite complete, you’ll
join me in the kitchen, hazel eyes
Glassy as this kitchen window,
a sly smile across your unfamiliar face-
I know you don’t have a cold.
I look into your empty eyes,
staring at the peak of addiction;
Lies reflect your blank expression.
A standing corpse, I never thought
my daughter would be the first
to die- but your values cold,
your love for me, dead. I picture your face
used, your smooth legs, delicate curves
sold for grams of pleasure-
what a mother does not want to know.