Mother

Sometimes, she was a phantom,
a ghost of perfume and powder,
moving silently through empty walls,
drowsing in the corners of drunken hallways
a collar of pearls at her neck,
bands of gold ringing her wrists.

Sometimes, she would scream,
and each finger, a bullet fleshed,
compelled by furious trajectory,
clutched at my braids, then broke themselves against my cheek;
each calloused hand recoiling
shamelessly, to strike again

or still.