To the Artist's Page To our home page
To T. S. Ross's previous piece To T. S. Ross's next piece
My mother is dead. Strange that I should Miss the voice Of one who I couldn't Stand to talk with For 30 years Before that She'd crippled Me psychically By wishing me a girl. Dad helped. When my parents split I was left with her When I needed A father badly. She belonged to a cult That denied reality To the material world, That denied medicine To children, That nearly killed me. For years I learned To simply grunt An affirmative Occasionally When she talked. The few times I listened It did not seem worth it. I became a fag And the first boy To pierce his ear To piss her off. It did not work. She wanted A daughter. My wife was Unlike her In as many ways As I could see, And like her In ways I didn't see. My mother helped To wreck my marriage. One great weapon Was wrecking her health. I'd known when I moved back home That I was the one. She didn't want To end her days In the medical cage. I was the one Who must kill her. When her brother Defied her wishes And had her "hospitalized" I must insist That in her gasping breathe She'd begged to go home And not have her foot cut off. Scarcely a week I had her. Helped to clean Her diapers, her dirty arse, Her befouled sheets, Lifting her, rolling her over, Rolling the sheets under Her parchment thin skin, Combing her grey hair, Stroking her brow. Kissing that skull-like face, Looking to see The light of recognition Die in her eyes Before her kidneys failed. The end came quickly then, The death-watch began, Twelve hours of Unending sleep she had Before eternal rest. The last half hour I was at her side, Joking, laughing, singing To her softly Like a baby, Until I heard her Death-rattle And grasped her hand Before her last gasp. She died with her son Holding her hand And I kissed her corpse While the brain still lived within, Sensitive to lips on skin. She died as she wished And I murdered her, As she wished. I've not been free Of guilt since. I wish I could tell her I missed her.
To the top of this page