Mather2

You were beautiful even in the end

when you were so sick

of us.

Mornings I would sleep walk in

and see you

scraping at the bitter rye

and knifing the yellow butter.

You’d turn and smile

the way people smile

when they used too many front teeth

to bite into their blackened toast.

Then you’d tell me good morning

the way a woman does

when her mouth is full of ashes.