I slipped on your memory in the kitchen last week,
caught my ribs on the edge of your absence,
you split my chest with slick fingers,
parting hot muscle like a ten-dollar chicken
skillful with a carcass, you clambered out of the cavity
shaking gristle like it was stuffing.
I gripped cold marble as you crunched across boneyard tiles
to grab a mop (you were always practical), then
passed the silver bucket like a silent reproach,
left me holding an empty question; buckled in half.
Mother, how long must I sweep?