she whispers in the
form of subtle
decay:

"my parents
died
when i was
a
teenager.
i moved
to the city
and
got
mugged.
twice.
stolen bags,
crashed cars,
step-mothers.
calls at midnight,
heavy breathing,
dial tone."

she smiles
and it seems
so
sincere:

"thirty-five
years of
broken hearts
dead friends,
dead aunts,
uncles,
cats."

fast forward
fifteen
more:
"c-sections,
mortgages,
loans,
quieted fights."
fast forward
to a nuclear family:

"children,
husbands,
pets,
furniture,
painted walls,
painted faces."

and also
silver hairs
painted gold
as if to hide
what's happening
inside:

"i'm not a
prozac tragedy.
i am happy.
and i always
have been."

and these are
my mother's
secrets,
whispered
in the form
of subtle
decay.