Stitch Me A New Dawn

A poem I've written for those who lost their mothers

Stitch Me A New Dawn

Fransivan MacKenzie

You hate the way people try to console you

because no matter how well they mean,

their band-aids can't patch up

your gunshot wound that gnaws.

This wide-mouthed hunger that can't be fed

with chocolates and casseroles

screams in a volume loud enough

to shatter the stained-glasses windows

of churches you used to go to

when you were little

and her leading was your only North.

This blazing candle can't be doused,

not even with the Pacific

your eyes alone have brought into existence.

Instead, it catches your curtains

when you aren't paying enough attention.

You blink and your home is on flames.

There is nothing left but ashes

in the breeze and you are suffocating.

There's no hand to knock the blockages

in your lungs off, now,

but you keep breathing.

Today is just like any other day

you have mourned over this gash

that can't be nursed.

Whiskey won't make up for breastmilk.

Cigarettes won't keep you warm as much as her chest did.

When you crave her cradle,

the world can bring you wood to build you a crib,

but it will not smell like her skin.

You won't hear her heart beat,

and yours will only ever sing of her name.

You hate the way days break like this,

how the golden yolk cracks upon the heavens of your city,

how it isn't her face that paints the sky

when she's still your sun even when she's gone.