depression – Magic Mama

dear grandmother,

a two-sided notebook paper
rant dedicated just to me.

there is no rhythm to the remembering, / no time or space or elaborate calling

words are fraying tethers.

I thought of the end and / I met it for what it was.

Her snail’s pace is patience, thrumming
through the rooms where I try to exist.

inches from the nowhere drain

hound the ones with rounded edges

it took a year for it / to die, shelled and / alone in a far corner of / the unkempt living room.

descend and dissolve

like placing paper / to the flame.