Not-stalgic

Too close to be still.
This chill is the loss of a
Memory. Warm, and quiet, but now
Fleeting,

And taking with it
Pouring juice and tying shoes,
Wearing ma's red lipstick and
Cutting her own hair, while
Telling baby brother to stay
Close.

Ma never would.
She'd sit right beside them,
To be as far away as possible.

Deadtime

The bed
Turns to satin-
Lined mahogany, but
Is not what the prayer was truly
Meant for.