I saw mother harvested,
Half eaten by the crows
Who stole the black from her scalp;
Tired and consumed by
Those skulking cells.

I don’t remember the day…
But her songs shriveled like
The tomatoes in my defrosted fridge –
Pale pink, red, black –
Scarred by the hurt scabs of cold.

Her brows collapsed into the pockets of her nightgown
And twilight loops, cast lines across her eyes
As she showed me the black, clotted ball,
Hidden behind the mother I sucked once
Like supporting columns, of stationary fear.

I rambled out of automatic doors
Into the awful sun
To steal a smoke,
While she lay in the executive suite,
Explicating her newest victory to friends

Sushil Sivaram
Book of Crumbs
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