LIKE ACID ON MY TONGUE
Confined to bed where, racked with pain, she cries
each time she moves an arm, a leg, I see
my mother, once so strong, now old and sickly.
I hardly recognize her as she lies
there, looking through me with milky brown eyes,
her lips like wings of fledglings flapping free.
My heart is breaking. It wants me to flee
from her. Go far away before she dies.
Instead, I take a seat beside her bed
and speak to her of days when I was young,
a life’s review, I doubt she even heard––
this loving woman whose passing I dread.
“Goodbye” burns now like acid on my tongue.
I touch her hand. I will not speak the word.
Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared widely. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award. His poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, and Christian Science Monitor. His short-short story collections, Flashing My Shorts and 200 Shorts, published by All Things That Matter Press, are available in book and Kindle editions at http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet. Visit him at http://salvatorebuttaci.
wordpress.com. He lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.