It was three days before my mother died,
when I broke the glass, a gift from long ago,
a birthday present for my mother from her sister.
That day, I received a phone call from my Aunt
it was the sort of conversation where you have
to wait so long to speak you forget you can speak.
I needed to tell her about the broken glass but
she went on and on about the honey vampire
who, she assured me, survive not on blood but sweat.
And then, in three days, the impossible sequences
of death and the longest night when my mother died,
I lay in bed with the completeness of loss and regret.
The next morning, my body was tight, hot and as dry
as scorched sand so I drank some water and rang
my Aunt to tell her about the glass and why I broke it.
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