Georgette Unis

Sweet but not sweet enough,
those memories of mother,
though medicinal at times
by current standards

and compared to the dove
who warms her nest
and never moves until
she must find food

or her hatchlings
in the kind of devotion
she talked about but sat
deep in her imagination.

Today is the anniversary
of my mother’s death,
her physical one
and though her memory

never leaves me,
conscious or unconscious,
I harbor her lessons
from the voyage here

through threatening storms
and endless horizons
of tumulous waves.
Her fiancé shelved,

she came in bracelets
and red lipstick,
her suitcase packed
with empty dresses.

no matter the meaning
her words come
rapid as gun fire

while she wears her woes
snug to her bosom
in an expensive tee shirt

scooped low enough
for the pierced heart
on her tanned breast

to reveal cracks
wide as the ones
in old sidewalks

through which weeds grow
their roots ju-jitsu
for dominance

neither tools nor fingers can release
only poison that dissolves
with each season

while the gardener says
they must be destroyed
as enemies in a war

but even the vanquished
lie in wait
for opportunity

and they grow back
deep as shame
inflicted by classmates

or a mom or dad
no therapist can remove
only teach her to step over