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Breakfast
December 3, 2013
You told me she had died in a hospital bed
With her glasses on
So that she could see Death properly
And I picked away at my breakfast,
Which was pancakes and strawberries,
Trying to imagine
Her squinting ahead at Him
With her dying eyesight
The pancakes were dry and store-bought
And my plate was a pool of cold syrup
And flavorless,
Half-eaten strawberries
When I had finished,
And my hands were stained with the sweet blood
And you took my place,
Picking away at soggy crumbs.
© Omar M., Philadelphia, PA
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