i'll be dancing on the roof

by atti?

The palms of dry Tuesdays
sweep the ash of Wednesday,
lubricate the resin with mom's
tears while my hands slip
away from the love of every final hug.

I'll rape this tiny violin for
all the insignificance it's
belaying throat can bare to hold,
as I slip and slide along a threading 
noose with a single tear 
drowning in the screaming bow.

To every hair that decays
from the head of her first born,
Mother sheds another love letter.

12 months; too many minutes.
My mother's hands met the clocks
as Father Time kissed her wrist
while seconds began to sprint
so they could be the first to slit it.

I watched the clock drink 
her blood while the orchestra
played the heart in E minor.
Her sorrows giggled down every
solum wave of percussion
that her tears left on the tin
roof of our rusting syncopation.

Mommy's only happy 
when it rains on broken Fridays.
She can't cry when the
floods condemn her misery,
and every ounce of that liquor
we weep is watered down
beyond a sensible cure for hurt.

Don't worry Mom, I love you.

Stop spending yourself
on questions to my wrong answer.
As cancerous as tomorrow's bred,
I'll sit their and sing from cloud nine.

I'll hum our favorite tune
for every loose note I never
meant to let you know,
and as I kiss your weeping
head goodnight listen for
my dancing footsteps...

I'll keep running across
this roof forever, just so you
don't have to cry.