Mother

My mother is a treasure trove of anxieties,
Each jewel of illness more lustrous than the last
She is delicate in the way that secrets are,
Every mood a new outfit to try on.
I do not ask her about when she found her brother with
half a face. Smells like gunpowder and cooked meat.
She is capriciously joyful but mostly very anxious and sad.
I don’t ask her why she is sad, I assume it is the same reason as everyone else.