voices from white trash
There they were
standing face to face.
Sometimes she sees the echos of them
before
The fighting and fucking and pills
Before the isms took them both
Sometimes
They are children again
Eating sickly ripe mulberries
Carefully perched on the lowest limb
The bells of the laughter
At the treasure found
new each day
Such sweet delights
Spring days on front porches
Watching the western sky
Eyes like telescopes
Seeing the storm coming in
The sweet smell of rain and hail
Watching lightning strike over mesquite trees
The thunder ripping through flesh
Those days when all she was was a guardian
A protector a mother
Wiping the tears from her dirty cheeks
Doing the best she could
Fist bawled and wet with sweat
ready to take on the world
For just the two of them
Those faces now are distorted
Mangled
Gnarled and calloused
They are old and worn down
Wrinkled
Too many fights
Too many fucks
Too many pills
Too many isms
Too many phobias
Love forgotten
Deeds lost
Disgust
Pity
Decadent loathing is all that is left
Fists flying toward faces and torsos
Words hurling through the air
Always catastrophic
Always climatic
They will never see each other again
Until they do