Mother’s Tears are Part Lemon

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.

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