Months later, in a senseless series of gunfire questions
The boy inquired about me seeing my mother dead.
I darted my eyes at his mother,
Blushing in horror, bombarded, waiting for her to tell him to just shut up,
To stop asking such awful questions, shut up!
I wanted to scream, but we had to be kind about the Autism and we understood,
But why didn’t she take him away?
To stop making me think about my mother’s damn bones.
He confronted me with that bag of bones, as if it were there staring back at me,
Just a plastic bag, and dust, and the few last pieces of bone.
Oh, the difference between the painted face and the dress
Versus the bag and bone
Once my mother? Pulled out to be spilled out?
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Alexandra Ustach
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