i am to be cleaned up after…
there are five stages to grief and i’ve got two hands, ten fingers. wiggle them fast enough and it’s goodbye. i told my mother i had died. she said that’s nice and went about vacuuming the living from the room. from that point i didn’t trouble her to share the news. you have all scraped the value from my existence like burnt edges from toast anyway. pass something through flame and it’s either transformed or destroyed. why then do you pity the ashes while the new chassis denied? i didn’t ask for this deliverance into the light i was thrust any more than i’d begged to be heard over her old electrolux. decades later and those floors are no cleaner. now here we are. mother won’t answer my call from the other side so on the rare instance i visit i am mindful to keep my charred appearance as not to scare her.
listen to this poem
© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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2 thoughts on “pneumatophany”
Excellent piece, Joe. “pass something through flame and it’s either transformed or destroyed.” It’s that balance between being true to oneself and not making waves to the apathetic.
absolutely, Tara! thank you! xo