I remember the walls of that bedroom-
faces emerging from dark wood grain
whorls and lines, and the way
I would stare at that wall against
my twin bed with that huge blue
comforter of clouds and manifest
the creatures.
I remember tracing my fingers
over the hair and noses feeling
the black grooves.
I remember my fingers finding
the cold metal frame of the
window which was especially soothing
on a hot summer night.
I remember staring out the window
into the spotlight darkness for
a few moments until I scared myself
with thinking wolves could jump through
windows.

She often lost her vital fluids
in lachrymal seas down her
face as acid drops pendent from the
tip of her nose, dropped onto
the sheets.
She would find her way out of her
cataplexy finally, wander into
the kitchen and find her sequestered
glass on the muculent countertop.
She would make a subdulcid lemon
drink to drown her stomach
and aid the progeniture of her cyclic
sour sadness once again.
And she would forget about the lemon estrepement
piling up in the kitchen, against
windows and walls waiting
to be washed.

Her body lies there mottled and bruised by
bottles and trash heaped over her
mounds that once offered sustenance.
Our forgotten mother- we have sold
her out for our quick addictions
to cheap blood spilling out
everywhere into the cracks.
She is hooded and glowing
sickly under the eyes
as her veins are exposed and open
to the forced injections of the junk
we are holding her hostage to.

But Mother is ferocious
waking up from these induced comas
from time to time;
blood backflowing out, boiling
while she rages and tries to shake
off the sickness and our addictions.
Fighting the shakes is hard, and
sometimes we need to let her shake
it all out.

Inspired by prompt over here: http://magalyguerrero.com/on-her-day-gaia-wails-dark-poetry-for-the-cruellest-month-2016-day-10/ to: “Write a poem from the point of view of Gaia; focus on pollution, natural resource depletion, climate change, loss of bio-diversity, deforestation”

Stale french bread
with moldy crust feeding
the roaches in the cupboards.
A treasure chest buried
underneath tons of mud
with fool’s gold inside.
A whale beached on a
highway, guts everywhere
with traffic stranded for hours.

It didn’t used to be that way.

It used to be a fire
raging through a night
barely contained.
An aloe plant surviving
the harshest soil and
growing despite being cut.
A favorite song that you
play on repeat every day
smiling for what seems like forever.

She pleads to her mother on
the telephone- across the wires that span
the oceans between them (and she would
walk the high wire to her if there was one.)
But her mother tells her this is the way
it’s going to be, and she just has to give
him more time, and she will get used to
married life.
But, she hates him already- his mannerisms
at the dinner table (she can’t stand the
smacking), the way he can’t even reverse
his crusty inside out socks before she
has to do the laundry, and the way he
can be entertained by a video game all night.
She feels like she is going to be sick again.
They already upped her Paxil about a month ago
when her husband came home to her cutting up
his favorite afghan his grandmother had made.
She just wishes Mother was there to wash her
hair tonight.
She tells her mother good night, hangs up the phone,
finds the scissors and decides it’s time
for a haircut.

This was inspired by a prompt here: http://magalyguerrero.com/fictitious-afflictions-symptoms-dark-poetry-for-the-cruellest-month-2016-day-8/ which was to Write a poem that illustrates the symptoms of a quirky made up illness. I actually googled “persephone syndrome” and I did find some results pertaining to Greek married women who had a strong mother attachment, and would become “neurotic, anxious, and/or depressed” in their marriages.